


Coattails

by The_Pied_Avocet



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Black Butler - Freeform, Coming of Age, Dadbastian, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Kuroshitsuji - Freeform, Puberty, and all its "wonders", or eventually anyway... he's in training
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-01-26 15:12:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 89,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12560212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Pied_Avocet/pseuds/The_Pied_Avocet
Summary: Adolescence is the dormant rose of winter: a prickled, ugly, tangled mess of vines and thorns, with flowers promised only in the distant spring. "Spring" seems so far off to the demon that must console his angry, hurting charge in the midst of puberty - but it will come, and not without a price that they both must pay.





	1. The Shears

Henri Fairclough was, in the words of the old groundskeeper who first discovered his remains, “very dead.” The only untouched skin was that of the gentleman’s face, torn from its skull and hanging frayed from a bare December branch, the wind frosting its flat, purple lips. A confetti of Fairclough’s flesh and sinew painted the ex-man’s gardens, and the plants, if they could speak, would sing praises to the bloody meal. Scotland Yard only wished this were possible: the plants would forever remain the murder’s sole witnesses.

“The work of a monster,” the townsfolk would say tomorrow.

“The work of a maniac,” the country would say in fifty years.

“The work of a cult,” the world would say in a century.

“The work of a demon,” would be the eternal explanation.

But a demon was not to blame. And neither was the boy who commanded what was once a demon. The true culprit was the grotesque, beautiful, ruined, handsome, blood-bathed chimera born from their bond.

He answered to the name Sebastian. And he hadn’t always been this.


	2. The Lamb

Sebastian sighed as his gaze fell on a three-quarters-empty bottle of champagne left uncorked on the kitchen counter, a glass and a small spill marking the scene of the crime. It was likely the work of Bard. That chef could hardly cook without burning entire meals to a crisp, so why couldn’t he at least clean up after his own messes? The butler wondered, briefly, when this had happened, hoping the bottle had not been out for long, though the contents were certainly no good for drinking anymore. And surely it couldn’t be one of the vintage selections from the late master’s cellar?

Sebastian propped his forehead with two fingers, exasperated. He did not have the patience to sort out such mysteries right now.

Last night, and for many nights this week, Sebastian had been far too busy to give as thorough an investigation to the Phantomhive Manor as he usually would have. The main entrances and first floor hallways were never overlooked, but the kitchen and servants’ quarters he had passed by without much worry. He promised himself he would not be so distracted tonight and would be certain to confront Bard about the matter of the champagne at some point today.

But at that particular moment, the young master’s breakfast had to be prepared.

And usually that remedial task wouldn’t have been such an all-encompassing debacle, but lately Sebastian had to award some actual thought to it. For reasons he still did not entirely understand, this past week had been absolute misery. That wasn’t to say he could feel anything akin to sadness or depression, unless pushed to extremes. Yet lately even he, an esteemed and world-wearied demon, checked himself every time he had to deal with the young lord, Ciel Phantomhive.

It was as difficult as if he were learning to be a human butler all over again. This was because Ciel himself had regressed. That was really the only way to define it. He had been drifting into leisure and isolation, preferring the company of himself, for then he could not be judged for being slovenly and negligent. He did not attend his studies and slacked on his company work in favor of reading and pool and lazing in bed. He rejected invitations to minor social events. If it didn’t have to do with the Queen or the family of his betrothed, he wanted to waste no time on it.

Ten days ago, words were exchanged between Ciel and a strange boy. What were those words? Sebastian’s brain itched to know.

It began on February 18th, Shrove Tuesday. The general populace observed this as a day to feast before Ash Wednesday, the first day of the fasting period that lasted until Easter. For the wealthy and less devout, it was any other Tuesday, and for Miss Elizabeth Midford, it was an opportunity for a celebration. Amongst the lower-class, Shrove Tuesday was also known as Pancake Day, as pancakes filled the stomach and were easy and inexpensive to make. In Lizzie’s eyes, Shrove Tuesday was a chance to host an evening eating crepes with a group of her closest companions. If there was one thing the young master and his fiancé had in common, it was their naturally sacrilegious dispositions, even if Lizzie only meant well.

Ciel usually tried to finagle his way out of frivolous social occasions, but Lizzie wouldn’t let him escape this one, and so Ciel conceded, sighing only to Sebastian, “It could be worse. We’re only going to be eating sweets.” Indeed, come the 18th Ciel did seem to be in relatively high spirits. Sebastian rarely expected his young master’s good attitudes to last more than a few hours. What he hadn’t expected was for that good attitude, like a candle flame, to go from wavering to extinguished.

Between the carriage ride to the Midford manor and home again was the Shrove Tuesday party. Sebastian had not been present for it, and certainly that was where the transformative magic had done its work. He had entered the manor with Ciel and followed him to the drawing room. Inside the chairs and sofas had been pushed aside to make way for a grouping of long tables, on which had been laid out an assortment of marmalades, jams, compotes, and, the main event, a stack of crepes as tall as a top hat. Dining chairs surrounded the buffet, all but one seating a doll-like aristocrat's child.

Lizzie dashed up to Ciel as soon as he arrived and clasped his hands in hers. “Ciel, there you are! You’re the last one to show up, you silly! Well, you’re just in time to eat, the crepes are still hot, and we’re going to stuff ourselves until we can’t move!”

This “we” included a few faces that were only vaguely recognizable to Sebastian. Three of the guests were girls around Lizzie’s age, wearing their warm winter fashions as they were yet due for the social season’s spring dress. Sebastian had only seen one of the two boys before, a second cousin from the paternal side of Lizzie’s family, whom Ciel had described as “boring but certainly tolerable.” He was a delicate creature who was taught at home, hence why he was able to attend the party instead of being away at boarding school.

As for the other boy, Sebastian did not have any definitive answer why he wasn’t at school. The child was a black-haired, tousled thing who slouched and leaned his chin on the tabletop. One of the girls was hissing at him under her breath to straighten up and he ignored her in all ways. Sebastian deduced that the two were siblings and somehow the younger brother had been forced into attendance, likely by the parents, as the sister seemed utterly humiliated to have to look after him. At around eleven or twelve years, the boy was surely old enough to be in college. But these were the only observations Sebastian made, and truly it was more in hindsight than in the moment, as the demon hadn’t yet to suspect the urchin of anything.

“Sorry, Sebastian, but you aren’t invited!” Elizabeth had wagged her finger at him in playful chastisement. “Us young adults are going to have our own party tonight! But of course you’re welcome to celebrate Shrove Tuesday with our servants downstairs. Run along now!”

“Your invitation is gracious, my lady,” Sebastian said with a small bow. “Young master?”

Ciel waved him off. “Yes, yes, go and make merry. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

Naturally, Sebastian’s idea of “making merry” didn't involve eating pancakes with the Midford staff. He swiftly had himself situated in a treetop overlooking the manor, the gold fur of a slender tabby filling the space between his ungloved fingers. It wasn’t often he had the chance to indulge his feline tastes… and at the time, this had seemed like such a dream that he’d paid hardly any mind to the party happening behind the windowpane just thirty yards away.

Sebastian did not imagine he would ever regret being preoccupied with a cat. February 18th had changed his mind.

He did give brief glances to the drawing room indoors, for even though Sebastian was certain his charge was in no immediate danger, his guard never dropped altogether. It was just after he was permitted to touch the velveteen of the golden beauty’s inner ear that something caught his eye. Within the window’s bright square, Ciel had stood up from his place at the table and was berating that lackadaisical black-haired boy, who was still slouching.

Sebastian kept the cat entertained with his hands and his sights trained on the window. From far away, his perfect eyes could read Ciel’s lips – “If you can’t behave yourself, you can leave. You’re embarrassing your sister and ruining this party for the rest of us.” Sebastian chuckled to himself. How unusual for Ciel to play the role of the ‘responsible boy.’ But that wouldn’t be the most unusual occurrence.

The ‘irresponsible boy’ replied with something Sebastian could not make out with his back turned. Ciel raised his chin and retorted, “Well then it’s no wonder they kicked you out of school.” That was when the little Heathcliff rocked out of his chair to his heels and shouted. Whatever the words, they made Ciel lower his brow and put on a puzzled, concerned expression. The sister put her hands to her mouth, and the brother dashed out of the room. Lizzie came into view then, and held Ciel’s arm to her chest and said something with a worried frown, nothing more consequential than an, “Oh, dear.” Ciel still seemed to be digesting the secret words that were shouted at him. He said nothing and the children’s gathering disbanded soon after.

Sebastian scratched his coin-colored prize at the base of her tailbone till her back arched like a bridge. Now he had to make busy dusting off her fur before he could show up to collect his master. The answers would be his in due time.

“That seemed to end a bit swiftly,” the butler began, once he and his lord were alone in the carriage together.

“A bit.” Ciel had his elbow propped on the windowsill and his mouth pressed to his palm. His speech was thoughtful, muffled.

“Did something happen?”

Ciel eyed him with the single spot of blue. “Some drama spoiled the party atmosphere. I think Lizzie was secretly delighted about it though. She has this new fascination with gossip and scandal. It makes me worry she'll ask me to make some kind of a scene with her in public someday.”

“Some kind of a scene, hmm?” Sebastian mused. “What kind of scene was there tonight?”

“Jane Reubin’s little brother was being a nuisance. He was making a mess and kept complaining that the crepes were too thin and such.”

When Ciel stopped his explanation there, Sebastian only felt his curiosity grow. Certainly there was more of a story here. “Did he say something shocking to you, young master?”

Now Ciel looked annoyed. “Why is that any of _your_ business?”

“It certainly need not be.”

“Then it isn’t.”

“Young master, do not be so evasive. I can tell when something is troubling you.”

“You’re lucky I’ll excuse your impertinence,” Ciel growled. “When your master tells you his life is none of your business, you keep your nose out of it. Or your _master_ might just be inclined to have you muck out the stables.”

Sebastian’s lips parted in mild surprise at the elevated turn of the conversation. No words would soothe now, and the carriage ride commenced in silence. He decided he would ask again about how the party unfolded in the morning. A good night’s sleep was the typical cure for a sour outlook.

“I don’t want to meet with Mr. Cavendish today,” Ciel said when he finally rose at nine-thirty. “Turn him away when he arrives and tell him whatever he comes up with for the Dauphin line is fine. I’m sick of talking about textiles for stuffed bears. Yes, I know I had crepes yesterday, I still want three sugar cubes. I can wake up whenever I damn well please!”

Had the faeries spirited Ciel away in the night and left a most unconvincing changeling in his place? If only it could be so. Like it or not, this new brat was his master in the flesh.

When told he should be doing his homework, his paperwork, his responsibilities as the Earl of Phantomhive, Ciel would answer snottily, “I’m not going to today, and that’s that. You can’t make me do it, you know.” And in some ways Ciel was right – he couldn’t be _commanded_ , not in the same way Ciel could command Sebastian, but that didn’t mean the boy shouldn’t be _instructed_. With trained patience, Sebastian had reminded Ciel of his goal to be the finest master possible, which meant he had to make appearances and continue his studies, to remain impressive and decisive.

“Well, I don’t feel like it today, and perhaps not tomorrow either,” Ciel had drawled, and that was that. Ciel had instead spent the day in his study, fiddling around with books and board games. Sebastian had felt that perhaps just one afternoon of recreation would be enough to appease him, but still a week later Ciel rebuked studying for trips to town and dozing about.

Mrs. Mayell the dance instructor and Mr. Hancey the professor of arithmetic had no qualms about the young earl calling off their appointments at the last minute. This was to be expected, as they received full pay when there was less than twenty-four hours' notice of a cancellation. The tutors only expressed real concern when Sebastian informed them their services would be postponed “until further notice.” Sebastian could not have pitied them less: if they knew how the young master was acting, they would surely forego the paychecks than be in his presence.

And Ciel’s obstinacy hadn’t stopped at his lessons and meetings. When Sebastian had brought him his mid-afternoon snack in the library a few days ago, a more significant and healthy choice than usual because Ciel had neglected his lunch, the young master had glared at the crudités and then up at his butler. He gave a short laugh.

“I’m not going to eat this,” he sneered. “Take it away.”

Sebastian narrowed his eyes. “You should, if you want to feel well. The vegetables will give you far more energy than sweets would, and you’re going to need that if you want to stay awake through dinner.”

Ciel waved his hand at it. “No, I don’t want it. Bring something with chocolate in it instead.”

Without another word, Sebastian had. Perhaps he should have objected – he usually would have objected – but he really was getting tired of making decisions for the boy when all he would get in response was griping. And despite his sweet snack, Ciel had indeed made it through dinner without trouble. In fact, when half past ten arrived, the boy said he was hardly tired and was going to stay up reading as long as he wanted. On his nightly rounds, Sebastian saw his charge finally retire at around two in the morning. When the sun rose, Ciel objected to both an eight o’clock and a nine o’clock alarm, and finally managed to stir when it was a quarter till eleven, very begrudgingly at that.

Sebastian did not voice his disappointment, but he wore it like a mask. He was hoping Ciel would respond to it with shame and try to change his rebellious behavior, but nothing worked. In fact, his performance only grew more disheartening. It was nine o’clock on a Thursday morning, and Sebastian could only hypothesize that the breakfast of toast, half an orange, and sausage links would not be turned away. A month ago this meal would have been acceptable, but now? There was no telling.

After taking the trays upstairs via the dumbwaiter, Sebastian rapped softly on the door, waited half a minute, and then entered without being called in. Lately it had been likely this – no doubt Ciel was not awake yet, having spent another evening staying up as late as he fancied, without heed to what the next day would bring. It wasn’t very becoming for a young person to sleep in so late, and Sebastian was tiring of this behavior, wondering when his displeased hints would have to transform into poignant order. He wasn’t looking forward to that whatsoever. It was equally unbecoming for a butler to be telling his master how to live his life than it was for the master to be so slapdash.

As expected, Ciel was curled up completely under the blankets and comforter in the huge bed, his form immobile. Sebastian wheeled the trolley of tea and breakfast to Ciel’s right and crossed briskly to the other side to open the drapes. It was a cloudy day, but the sun still peeked out between the gaps, and Ciel immediately cringed in on himself.

“No, close it... It’s too bright for me.”

“It’s time to get up,” Sebastian said merely, clipped. But immediately after speaking, he realized something was off. “Young master, are you... well?”

There was a croaking cough. “I threw up last night. Close the curtains.” Ciel’s hand waved out of the sheets. “Jus’ close the curtains already... ngh. It’s hurting my eyes.”

Sebastian did as he was told, abstaining from a sigh. “Where did you vomit? And when?”

“I threw up into a towel so nothing is ruined or anything. ’s on the floor somewhere. Now leave me alone.”

Sebastian picked up the offending object and put it where Mey-Rin could find it later, glad he’d brought extra gloves, as always. He could not serve any food while wearing the same pair.

“Why didn’t you summon me last night?” Sebastian asked, truly curious and a little put-off. Though he had not felt the need to carefully inspect the mess on the towel, he did note it had been completely dry. “You know I would have come to help you. We could have gotten you on the path to recovery much faster.”

“I was too sick to.” A pause. “I don’t have to tell you _everything_. Now go away so I can rest.”

Ciel was still hidden under the blankets, so Sebastian allowed himself a frustrated glance at the ceiling. Ciel may be sick but he clearly wasn’t sick enough to lose his foul attitude. “I’m not leaving yet. Come out from under the covers so I can see you, please. We need to find out what your symptoms are, so I can decide if I need to administer medicine.”

“ _Fine_.” Fussily, Ciel slithered his way out from beneath the blankets, his mismatched eyes annoyed but lidded tiredly. Sebastian had wondered if the sickness was a new ruse to get out of work but clearly the boy wasn’t well. Sebastian took off one sullied glove and tested Ciel’s forehead for fever. There was none.

“Would you mind describing to me how you feel, young master?”

“Yes,” Ciel said, “but I will anyway. My mouth is dry but my throat doesn’t hurt. My head hurts a lot. Don’t open the curtains again, the light stings my eyes. My stomach still hurts but I don’t think I’m going to throw up anymore.” Ciel frowned up at his butler. “You’re a demon, aren’t you? Shouldn’t you be able to pick up on when something is wrong?” And then, with a hint of panic, “You can’t just know everything by looking at someone, right?”

“I cannot read minds, if that is what you are inferring.” Sebastian removed his hand and took his remaining glove off to put on the new pair. “We could have solved many crimes for the Queen much faster, if that were possible. In any case, I see you are not well enough to leave your room today. Because of your nausea, I also doubt you have any interest in eating. I think a glass of tea might do your stomach some good, however, especially if there isn’t honey in it.”

Ciel licked his lips. “I... I feel like I should eat something.”

“I don’t advise it. Judging from your symptoms, I imagine you have some mild form of gastroenteritis,” Sebastian said. Despite this diagnosis, he felt a bit wary of the boy’s responses. Ciel had to be sick, but... he was behaving like he wasn’t, in some ways. “I’ll prepare you some peppermint tea instead of Ceylon.” And then, reluctantly, “Is there anything else I can bring for you?”

Ciel had hunkered back down in bed and closed his eyes. “No. I just want to lay here. My head hurts too much. No lessons today?”

“Just as with the rest of this week,” Sebastian said, his tone dry, “there will be no lessons.”

“Good.” And that was all. No acknowledgement that he had been behaving like a spoiled brat, just a simple reaffirmation of his power. Sebastian gave a small snort in disappointment. Just what was he going to do with that boy?

Sebastian wheeled the trolley out of the room and back to the dumbwaiter. Another wasted breakfast. At least today it was with purpose: it seemed like every other morning this week, all Ciel wanted was bacon or butter or sugar or something else that was certainly no good for his body. Maybe that was why he had gotten sick. Sebastian noted this with a touch of spite: this would be fair evidence for a future lecture, when he had the time and energy to deliver one.

He could hardly believe that Ciel would be bull-headed forever, but he wished he knew how long the boy intended to keep this up. At every one of Sebastian’s suggestions, the young master could only oppose his butler. Ciel had to have his way, even if his way ended up being more of a hassle. For example, when Sebastian had recommended he take his bath in the evening, Ciel declared he’d rather have it the next morning. That had meant after breakfast, when Ciel had wanted to hurry to the early market, he first had to get the bath over with and had been utterly horrid then too. There was soap in his eyes, the water was too hot, the towels didn’t smell right... where hadn’t Ciel tried to turn everything on its head? It was stunning how burdensome this behavior could be. It was nothing Sebastian hadn’t dealt with from past contracts, certainly, but never before had he felt so... personally involved.

Sebastian reentered the kitchen and began to fix the peppermint tea immediately. At the moment Finny was there, having his own modest breakfast of toast and butter at the servant’s table. A swath of mud on his cheek said he had already started his chores for the day and was taking his first break.

“It seems that the young master is the only one around here who doesn’t acknowledge that the world begins at sunrise,” Sebastian said, handing Ciel’s full plate over to the surprised gardener, question marks dancing in his round eyes. “The young master isn’t feeling well, he has a minor illness. His breakfast will go to waste unless someone eats it.”

Finny blinked at the butler. “Mr. Sebastian?”

“What is it?” Sebastian had already poured the wasted Ceylon irritably down the sink and was preparing the kettle for reuse.

“Excuse me if this is a bit forward, but I’m not sure I’ve ever heard you speak so candidly about the young master before,” Finny admitted with the smallest smile. “All of us here are very grateful to him, of course, but... have you also noticed a change in his manners lately?”

Sebastian blinked. Should he confide in the gardener? He supposed it wouldn’t look natural if he dodged the subject now. He delved further into it, promising himself he was only doing so to come off as normal. “Yes, I have. He is very particular and no longer wants to participate in his studies or his work. I don’t know if he understands that this behavior is completely unacceptable for him.”

“Oh,” Finny said. “Well... I don’t know about that.”

Sebastian paused in the tea-making process. “What do you mean?”

“I guess I just mean...” Finny shrugged. “It is _different_ behavior but that doesn’t mean it’s _wrong_. I’m not sure. I didn't have a lot of experience with other humans until a few years ago, but I think... I think people go through phases where they change and grow, and I don’t think it would be unusual for the young master to be changing at his age, do you?”

“So drastically?” Sebastian hated that he had to ask.

“Maybe. I bet Bard and Tanaka would know more,” Finny nodded.

Ah, that was right. “Speaking of Bardroy, have you seen him this morning? I need to talk to him about his... alcohol consumption.”

Finny laughed brightly. “That sounds funny. I saw him outside in the stables when I was coming back in for breakfast, getting some feed out for the horses. Would you like me to go fetch him?”

“Please do.” At least he could get to the bottom of one case this morning. Bard wasn’t difficult to talk to, plus it was Sebastian’s job to keep him in line, so this conversation would be a fresh breath after dealing with Ciel. Finny sped out the servant’s entrance, leaving behind the breakfast plate, completely clean of food and shining as if it had been licked. Sebastian sighed. No one here tidied up after themselves, which wouldn’t be so much of a problem if the maid weren’t blind.

“G’morning, Mr. Sebastian,” Bard greeted as he came in and removed his shepherd’s cap, a question already in his voice. “Jus’ what’d you need me for, sir?”

Sebastian merely pointed at the bottle and the glass. He’d left out the mess deliberately (as much as it pained him) to use as evidence. “Might you be a bit more diligent about cleaning up after your little midnight escapades? Can you not wait until your night off and do this at the tavern?” He raised an eyebrow in disapproval.

Bard only shook his head in confusion. “Wasn’t me who did that, sir.”

“Oh, wasn’t it?” Sebastian mused. The chef could have gotten drunk enough to forget about it... but surely less than a bottle of champagne wouldn’t affect Bard that strongly? No doubt he’d participated in his share of drinking competitions and could hold his liquor well.

Bard shook his head again and picked up the bottle, tilting it around to get a good look at the label. “No, can’t say it was. What is this, cham-pag-nay? Never been too fond of the whites m’self. Not usually even the reds, unless it’s heavy stuff. I’ve got a taste for mead really. Don’t you peg me as a beer man? You know you’re working with an ex-soldier, don’t you?”

Sebastian had stopped paying attention about halfway through that explanation. If Bard wasn’t the culprit, it certainly couldn’t be Finny, who was eating another piece of toast nearby and would have immediately admitted his crime with a waterfall of tears. Tanaka was too cultured for such a thing; if he drank, he would have removed the evidence but still mentioned it in passing. He certainly didn’t have the youthful gusto to finish nearly an entire bottle. And Mey-Rin, she wouldn’t drink, and even if she had, no doubt she would have found a way to shatter the glass, and of course it wasn’t Sebastian himself, wine had no appeal to his tongue...

Oh.

_Oh._

Sebastian removed the whistling kettle from its station over the flame and calmly, carefully rearranged the tray so that it was once again ready for presentation. Bard and Finny were exchanging clueless looks, but Sebastian kept his face as placid as ever, even with a small hint of a smile. He used the pulley system to bring the trolley to the second floor again and met it, walking through the long hallways that he could have trodden with his eyes closed.

Sebastian made it back to the bedroom door and knocked thrice, solidly. This time there was a groggy reply.

“Come in, then.”

And Sebastian did, hitting the door just so against the wall as he swung it. He closed it again without turning the knob, making the latch click loudly, and approached the boy whose gray hair was spread across the pillow in restless disarray, a hand propped under his bangs. As Sebastian prepared the beverage, he let the spout of the teapot clink against the rim of the cup, the spoon scrape the glass concave as he stirred, actions he wouldn’t have permitted himself under normal circumstances but in this moment relished.

“Must you be so noisy? My head feels as if it’s being stabbed,” Ciel growled. “I don’t care what you think about starving it out. My stomach needs something in it or it won’t stop turning.”

“Hm.” Sebastian placed the teacup atop its saucer with an audible _clink_. “You know, young master, I think you may have had a point. I was wrong.”

Ciel snorted. “Yes, you probably were, but what do you think you were wrong about?”

“About your having gastroenteritis.”

Sebastian watched Ciel react to that. There wasn’t much change, but Sebastian detected the subtlest of movements: a tiny dart of Ciel’s eyes to the opposite wall and back. “All... right then. Well, I am sick. If something’s not wrong with my stomach, I don’t know what is.”

“Don’t you?” Sebastian asked. “I think you may have some idea.”

“Don’t talk to me that way!” Ciel shouted, somewhat hoarse. He glared hard at his butler, Sebastian gazing gravely back. Ciel held the stare for a few moments more. Then it dawned on him. Ciel knew what Sebastian knew. It was clear in those blue and purple eyes as they faltered to the floor: a look of uncertainty, guilt, perhaps even embarrassment, the classic expression of getting caught in a lie and wanting to disappear.

Sebastian opened his mouth to speak but cut himself off when Ciel’s gaze shot up, as fiery as ever. With a grin, the boy folded his arms over his pajamas. “Well, what do you have to look so grim about? So what? I can do whatever I like. I’m the master of this place, not you.”

Sebastian sighed long and hard. “Young master, you are only fourteen years old–”

“And I’m already a lord!”

“Title aside, you are too young to drink nearly an entire bottle of champagne by yourself.”

“That isn’t for you to decide.”

“It isn’t my decision, young master. Many humans before you have proven this so.”

Ciel puffed out his chest, trying for proud. “They said I was too young to be the master of my own manor, too, but look at me. I’m- I’m practically an adult already! If I’ve seen people die, I can drink alcohol. I can handle it.”

Sebastian shook his head. “Clearly, young master, you are not handling it well in the least.”

“Well, if you were any good at your job, you would have stopped me before I drank!” Ciel shouted, having risen to his knees in bed so they were closer to the same height. He laughed once, mockingly. “But no one saw me! No one even _tried_ to stop me, not even you, even though you say you’re always looking out for me, patrolling the hallways after I’m supposed to be asleep! Couldn't even tell what a ‘child’ was doing, out of bed in the middle of the night! And now you’ll regret it, won’t you? You failed, Sebastian! _Ouch!_ Damn it...”

Ciel hissed as his head panged, and he sunk back on his heels.

“You think I failed because I didn’t notice you were awake?” Sebastian said. Ciel nodded, baring his teeth in pain but trying to look as if it were a threat. Sebastian remained calm. “Perhaps I did fail, though I don’t know what that failure is based on. I did not miss you last night, because I was only looking for anything out of the ordinary. I did not look in the kitchen and, considering your new sleeping schedule as of this week, I did not think it was odd for you to be out of bed at that hour. I myself was rather busy with a task I deemed more important.”

“Oh, and what would that be?” Ciel said, grinning maliciously. “What’s more important than making sure I’m well? Why didn’t you know I was up to no good?”

“Are you implying that you only drank so that I might catch you?”

Ciel looked away. “No. But I...” He trailed off and grunted. “Not that you need to know. Or deserve to know.”

“So you drank champagne with the express purpose of getting drunk?”

“Sure I did. Because I can.”

“That’s your only reason?”

“What more reason do you need from your _master_?”

Sebastian’s eyebrow ticked. “I need one to ascertain your own health.”

Ciel rolled his eyes. “I’m not really even sick, I’m just affected by the alcohol, it’ll go away–”

“You’re ill _right now_ because you made a poor decision, young master. You need to take better account of your own well-being.”

“It was the decision I wanted to make, that’s all that matters!”

“And why all of a sudden?”

“It isn’t sudden!”

“Ten days ago you weren’t–”

“I’ve always been able to do whatever I wish!”

“And _why_ have you decided you can do whatever you wish?” Sebastian finally asked. He felt as if he had blurted it out: how often did he reveal he didn’t know something? But he was too vexed to care. “You are, obviously, at the oldest in this moment that you have ever been. Yet you are acting as if you are that ten-year-old urchin I first met. There were those weeks, long after you better recovered from your parents’ deaths and from your months as a captive, that your behavior began to worsen just a bit, because your freedom had come back to you and you realized that no one would tell you what to do anymore.” Ciel folded his arms more tightly at that, scowling. “That is how you are behaving again, and I know the Shrove Tuesday party has something to do with it. It is as if that Reubin boy has spoken the incantation to turn you into the troll under the bridge. But what those words could be, I cannot possibly fathom.” Ciel’s cheeks and ears burned a livid red. “And so I ask you, now, to tell me where this wicked nature has sprung from.”

“I don’t know!” Ciel shouted, throwing his arms out and laughing, but not merrily. “I don’t know, how the hell am I supposed to answer that? I’m only acting like myself, not anybody else!”

Sebastian put a knuckle to his chin. “I should tell your aunt about the champagne.”

Ciel’s eyes widened. “No, you won’t.”

“I won’t,” Sebastian said, “but perhaps she would better know how to put up with you, since she is family. As your butler, I must say I have no idea how to make sense of your behavior. You need to eat more healthfully, you need to learn the lessons I give you, and you need to behave like a well-mannered young man. Surely you know these things, because I have seen you be capable of them. It is as if you have simply decided to disregard all of your hard work and transform into a silly child.”

“I don’t know why I am,” Ciel said, knotting up the sheets in his hands. He let go of them and knocked himself on the head with both fists. “I don’t know, I don’t know! I’m just being myself, all right? I don’t understand what the problem is.”

“And to answer your previous question,” said Sebastian, handing over the tea with a little too much force, “what I have been doing at night is trying to research what might have caused such an abrupt change in you. But I cannot find a single thread in the books in your library. I am going to keep looking, now in fact, for I understand you will not be going anywhere today. Rest.”

Sebastian turned to leave and was not terribly surprised to hear the sound of a shattering teacup behind him. The carpet was littered with splinters of china, Ciel’s hand leaning off the mattress in a downward thrust.

“Clean it up,” Ciel spat. His mouth fidgeted between a frown and smile, testing the man.

Then Sebastian said something he had never said to a master, something he didn’t even know he was capable of saying. “No, young master. I am not going to.”

“Then you violate the contract!” Ciel snarled.

Sebastian shook his head. “I don’t. I do not have to follow certain orders if I do not believe it is better for your well-being.”

“How is leaving tea on the carpet better for my well-being?!”

“You need to learn,” Sebastian said simply, “to _behave yourself_. And that’s not going to start unless you take responsibility of your own actions.”

Ciel glared at him again. “Well I’m not going to pick it up either.”

“And so there it shall forever remain.”

“You aren’t the boss of me!”

“Then who is?” Sebastian asked meaningfully. “Because from your display over the past few days, I doubt that person is yourself.”

Ciel grabbed at his scalp with both hands and screamed. “Fine! I don’t care! Fine!” Sebastian flinched as Ciel flung himself off the bed onto his knees and snatched up the pieces into his palm, plucking haphazardly. After a few seconds, he thrust the few white chips he’d gathered out at Sebastian. “All right, I cleaned it up on my own! See? I _can_ do these things!”

Ciel wasn’t crying but his eyes did have a watery look to them that betrayed his frustration. Sebastian recognized the meaning for it. He even felt a bit unsettled to have such a face directed at himself. It was a face of hopeful fury, both daring and pleading for Sebastian to accept him for just what he was in this moment: a spoiled, atrocious, hurting, confused little horror.

“You should get back into bed,” Sebastian said, not as a snappish command but a gentle suggestion. Ciel’s expression blinked into surprise. Sebastian held out his palm. “Let me take those pieces from you before you cut yourself. I’ll clean up the rest.”

“No you won’t.” Ciel was still defiant but rapidly losing steam.

Sebastian answered steadily, “I will, because you aren’t well enough to and I am. That is the reason, young master. That, and because it is my job. Nothing more.”

After an unwilling beat, Ciel’s posture slumped. He poured the pieces into his butler’s palm and turned around and clambered slowly back into bed, folding the blankets around his legs with deliberation. He watched tentatively as Sebastian removed the rest of the shards from the carpet and patted the damp spot with a towel. It was quiet the entire time as both parties were cooling down.

Finally Sebastian stood, hand full of tiny teacup fragments. “If you want to drink alcohol, young master, you may have a single glass of wine with dinner as often as you like. But you will not drink most of a bottle by yourself again – at least not for many years, not until you can make that decision more rationally, and even then I don’t advise it. It isn’t becoming...” He trailed off. “And it isn’t good for you. I think you learned that lesson for yourself today.”

“Okay.” Ciel had his knees pulled up to his face. He wasn’t looking at Sebastian.

“Please, get some real rest now and I’ll bring you something bland to eat. Let me know if I can fetch you anything else.” Sebastian turned to go, leaving the trolley there within easy reach.

“Tomorrow.”

Sebastian turned his head over his shoulder. “Tomorrow?”

Ciel nodded again. “Tomorrow I’ll... be good. I’ll get back to my paperwork.”

“Oh? Will you?” Sebastian tilted his voice.

Ciel nodded once more, knees still covering his mouth and gaze still fixed dead ahead.

“I’m glad to hear that.” Sebastian hesitated. “But even if you decide you won’t... I will still be your butler.”

“What? What’s that supposed to mean? That’s obvious,” Ciel whined quietly.

“It means...” Sebastian wondered what he meant. He realized it too quickly. “It means that as ill-mannered and impossible as you behave, it isn’t going to change the fact that I will still be here.”

With another flinch of surprise, Ciel turned to his butler at last. The two studied each other pensively.

Eventually the boy dropped his gaze. “I won’t drink that much again,” Ciel said, downcast. “I didn’t even like the taste very much. It was much too bubbly. It burned my throat and made me want to sneeze.”

“You don’t have to drink wine anymore if you don’t want to.” Sebastian returned to Ciel’s side and poured him more tea. “Now, you should lie down. And with your willing permission, I will prepare the delayed documents and studies for you to begin tomorrow.”

“Fine.” After another few careful sips, Ciel put the cup aside, turned and pressed his face directly into the pillows. He muffled something into them that sounded like, “Thkks.”

Sebastian had a guess at the secret message but still said, “Pardon?”

Ciel surfaced just a little. “Nothing.”

“Very well. I’ll return shortly with some honey toast for you, my lord.”

Sebastian shut the door with quiet care behind him, not wanting to further disturb that nasty headache. He himself didn’t fully recognize what had just passed, but he had a feeling Ciel would suddenly be easier to tolerate. And even if Ciel wasn’t... somehow Sebastian felt he would at least be able to put up with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you felt like Ciel was OOC, it's because I wanted him to behave more like a real fourteen-year-old than he usually does - in particular a fourteen-year-old with PTSD. This is going to surface especially in the next chapter.
> 
> If you felt like Sebastian was OOC at times and other times not, it means I've written this chapter successfully.
> 
> And if you enjoyed what you read, absolutely let me know! And if you didn't - let me know as well. Constructive criticism is welcome here.
> 
> I hope to see you again for chapter three!


	3. The Wolf

The incident with the wine, it turned out, was just the beginning of Ciel’s transformation.

Ciel’s initial rebellion that hit the Phantomhive manor like a steam train had slowed, but it certainly hadn’t stopped. The boy had returned to his lessons and paperwork, though he paced himself, and his steadily growing appetite made way for healthier options come supper. However, the topic of sleep was still one where demon and master butted heads.

Though Sebastian tried, it was nigh impossible to coax Ciel to bed before eleven, and twice as difficult to wake him up again in the morning. Their battles were becoming an evening event that the rest of the manor had grown to anticipate. As the sky grew darker, Finny, Mey-Rin, and Bard would begin to eye each other with apprehensive interest, as if silently betting on how high tempers would flare tonight. Ciel's inconsistent sleep patterns threw off the daily schedule entirely, gave Sebastian less time to keep the rest of staff in check, delayed crucial appointments with business tycoons, and set his own housework back by days. Now it was ten o’clock and the bedtime process was about to begin again. After three tedious weeks of these spats, Sebastian felt his patience exacerbated. Regardless, ending the contract was not even a question he considered.

It was all in wait of that delectable soul. Wasn’t it?

Lately Ciel spent a lot of time alone. In the evening he could often be found in his study or his bedroom, and on occasion Sebastian was asked to “go away, come back later.” Indeed there was an increased need for privacy that did not go unnoticed. Sebastian preferred not to ask questions. He was aware of the Phantomhive library, however, and that certain books on human anatomy had been selected as of late. Sebastian had seen empty slots in the shelves, only to find their missing books in spontaneous locations around the manor while cleaning. No passages were marked, but favored pages seemed to involve the makeup of the derma layer, male and female alike. Scotland Yard needn’t be called in for this little mystery.

Ciel’s interest in his own body and the bodies of others was of no surprise to Sebastian. If he knew anything about humans, it was their fascination with the parts hidden beneath cloth and lace, whatever parts their culture deemed sinful to gaze upon. It had been that way for thousands of years. What Sebastian was significantly less familiar with were the swinging moods and sensitive feelings that began with a young one’s startling introduction to sexuality. Though he’d now been informed that Ciel was in the midst of a tender age, perhaps the tenderest of them all, the boy was as prickly as a hedgehog and as argumentative as a jay - truly anything _but_ tender.

Tonight Ciel had chosen his study as his lounge spot. This made Sebastian’s job harder: at least if Ciel were in his room, he wouldn’t have to move much to get ready for sleep. Being a walk away from the bedroom caused Ciel to procrastinate until he was practically stumbling over his own feet down the hall in exhaustion, midnight chiming on the grandfather clock.

“If you don’t wish to walk, I will carry you,” Sebastian had offered stiffly a fortnight ago. He didn’t like to suggest it; it was something a nanny would say to a weary toddler.

Ciel had seemed to think so too. He’d slammed the covers of his book together hard. “I’m perfectly capable of walking there myself, when I’m ready to,” he’d snapped, and that was all there was to it. As if to punish Sebastian further, Ciel hadn’t gone to bed until two a.m. that night, and the following morning he’d refused to stir until after noon. Sebastian had been rethinking his strategies every since.

Sebastian stood before the study door. What were to be his means of persuasion this time? Ciel was not swayed by logic or meaningful prodding, and Sebastian refused to resort to bribery. Begging was equally unbecoming. And Ciel was likely already poised for a fight. Perhaps… Perhaps this war had gone on long enough. Perhaps a penalty was in order. Yes. The very thought of enforced obedience brought his knuckles to the wood.

Sebastian knocked. After a slight hesitation, Ciel barked, “Who is it?”

“My lord. May I enter?”

There was a snort. “Whatever.”

Sebastian stole briskly into the room and stopped dead in the center of the lush green carpet, hands folded curtly behind his back. Ciel was sitting at his desk, leaning back in his chair and propping up his feet on the tabletop, book in lap. “What do you want?” Ciel asked airily, without looking up.

Such feigned ignorance annoyed the demon. Sebastian put effort into steadying his voice. “It is after ten o’clock, young master. It is late and time for you to go to sleep.”

“No, thank you,” Ciel said, gazing into the book.

“And why not?”

“I’m not tired yet. I want to read.”

“Whether or not you are tired, now is the time for bed,” Sebastian said.

Ciel flipped a page distractedly. “No it isn’t.”

This was a new strategy of the boy’s: dismissing the other’s argument as insignificant so as to belittle it. Sebastian refused to play this game. “Yes, it _is_ bedtime. I believe this routine must be enforced for your own good. You can’t afford to get fewer than eight hours of sleep or wake up after mid-morning anymore. You have to go to bed by ten o’clock from now on.”

“No I don’t.” Ciel’s tone hardened a little but he still forced his gaze on the book.

“You do,” Sebastian continued, “or I shall have to take away certain privileges.”

“No you won’t.”

“I will. No one should have any obligation to take you to town, for instance, if you do not rise at a reasonable hour. And if you are not awake by nine, you should not have your breakfast served hot.”

Ciel glared at him. “No, that isn’t fair. I can do what I want.”

“You can’t, and I want to believe you’ll thank me when you’re older for saying so,” Sebastian replied thickly. Ciel flared his nostrils and Sebastian raised his chin. “We’ve discussed this before. Being an adult isn’t about doing anything you want. It’s about having the self-control to withhold yourself from greed and desire.”

“Greed and desire? Pff! What right do you have to lecture me on those?” Ciel snorted, standing up and pressing his palms to the desktop.

“Would you like me to get someone else to lecture you instead?”

Ciel pounded his fist on the hardwood. “No one needs to lecture me!”

Sebastian tutted, unable to resist mocking him just then. “Your quickness to anger says to me that you’re tired.”

That struck a nerve. Ciel rounded the desk and stormed up to the man with shoulders hunched. “I can do what I want to do and if you don’t leave me alone, you can be my dog instead of my butler!”

Sebastian couldn’t help it. He smirked, which only ruffled Ciel further. “Do you believe you have such a say in the matter? If you think you can still change the guidelines of the contract, you are sorely mistaken. It does not matter that you are rich or a lord. You cannot change what I am.” He licked the tip of a fang. “Only I can do that.”

For an instant Ciel looked unnerved. Sebastian was suddenly aware he shouldn’t have bared his eyetooth like that, but the boy recovered quickly. “Well you can’t change me either,” he declared, standing tall. “You made a contract with me, so you have to put up with me too! I’m still the one in charge! Now get out of my sight!”

There was an order he was happy to take. Sebastian gave a smart turn on his heel and strode out of the study.

He realized too far down the hallway that he still should have said, “Yes, my lord” before leaving the room. Any butler worth his salt would remember to announce his exit. Cursing himself, Sebastian slowed his footfalls from an irritated stride to a thoughtful pacing. Had he really just lost his temper? At a human? His patience, certainly, but never had his composure fled him like a frightened dove. That was new.

Sebastian put a hand to his chin as he walked. He didn’t like this loss of control. He didn’t know what it meant, but it couldn’t be anything good. What was more, that little exchange had escaped his grip before he’d thought to rein it in. He had derived no pleasure from that conversation, none of it, not the threats or the imposed punishment, not like he thought it would. Instead Sebastian felt… hollow. Unfulfilled.

… Guilty?

No, this wasn't any good.

“Mr. Michaelis?”

Sebastian paused, glanced up. He had been so lost in thought, he hadn’t noticed Tanaka approach him from the west stairwell. Or perhaps it was the senior butler’s soundless presence that hadn’t raised any suspicion. “Ah, good evening, Mr. Tanaka,” Sebastian greeted. “Is there something you needed from me?”

“I thought I heard Master Ciel shouting just a moment ago,” Tanaka said carefully. “I wondered if all was well and came to take a look.”

Sebastian sighed. “I wouldn’t say that all is well, but perhaps that all is done, for now. As usual, I was unable to convince him to go to sleep on-time. Ciel is quite attracted to staying up late these days. I know you’ve been taking on an increased amount of paperwork because of his new schedule.”

“Plenty of the paperwork already falls to me,” Tanaka said, smiling beneath his mustache. “It isn’t a concern.”

“But the attitude that contributes to the increased paperwork _is_ a concern.” Sebastian put a thumb to his chin and his index finger lengthwise across his lip. “This night owl behavior needs to be nipped in the bud, in my opinion, but he won’t listen to reason from me. Do you feel as though he listens to you?”

“I don’t know if it’s a matter of him listening or not,” Tanaka said after a moment’s hesitation. “I think the master hears you loud and clear.”

Sebastian lowered an eyebrow. “Well, yes. But he does not take to heart what I am saying.”

“Perhaps,” Tanaka began, “perhaps you are not taking to heart what _he_ is saying.”

“Oh? What have you heard from him?” Sebastian tried not to sound eager to know.

Tanaka chuckled into a fist. “He doesn’t talk to me about how he feels either. But I can see it, you know. I was young once. Growing up is difficult for everyone, much harder than getting old. And I can only imagine what it must be like to do so without his father around.” Tanaka’s eyes saddened. “I don’t know what the young master went through when he was kidnapped either. I don’t believe he’s ever told anyone the whole truth of it. It must hurt him badly. It is likely there are memories he’s tried to push down that are coming to the surface now with all this new confusion.”

Sebastian didn’t follow suddenly. “New confusion?”

Tanaka raised a knowing eyebrow. “The confusion of growing up, of course.”

But Sebastian could not relate to that. He did not understand what it was like to be human, and realized now that he especially did not understand what it was like to be a human child. He had gotten by in past contracts without having to fathom mortal intricacies. He hadn’t cared to. Now Sebastian found himself with a curious, inexplicable desire to make sense of this whole thing. After all, he wanted to make nice with his prey. Make peace with his charge. Make sense of a child who found himself lost in the world of adults he would soon be initiated into.

Oh, dear. Had that thought really just sprung to him?

No, none of this was any good at all.

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The young master did not go to sleep until after midnight. Sebastian gave Ciel a wide berth when he walked to his bedroom. Any further interaction between the two of them that night would likely end in discord. Fortunately, the boy had become adept at undressing himself, so as to cut Sebastian out of his nightly routine altogether, and would leave the clothes in unfolded puddles by his bedside to be picked up in the morning. He still needed help navigating his own wardrobe though (as did all aristocracy), and so Sebastian would be necessary again come daylight.

Sebastian had eight hours of darkness to digest Tanaka’s words. As the sun’s rays first touched the horizon line, he felt no closer to the answer. “ _Perhaps you are not taking to heart what he is saying._ ” Sebastian lowered his eyebrows. He had no heart, no soul. Could he come to grasp this lesson?

And if he did, would that mean he had a heart after all?

When the clock sounded eight tolls, Sebastian sought out Tanaka again. “Perhaps you should awaken the young master today. I don’t suppose he will be pleased to see me. He will likely be more compliant with you as well. You don’t have a history of arguing with him as I do.”

Tanaka smiled, his typical response to a difficult situation. “No, I believe you should proceed as normal. Perhaps be gentle with him today though. Last night’s shouting match didn’t do either of you any good.”

“Strong a conversation as it was, I didn’t shout at him,” Sebastian felt the need to say.

“Perhaps not,” Tanaka nodded. “Mind the inflection of your voice anyway, I think. He cannot be angry at you for being rational.”

Sebastian was sure if anyone could find a way to be angry about rationality, it was Ciel, but he didn’t further question the old man. Instead he followed his advice, for it was all he had.

When he approached Ciel’s door at half past eight, he rapped on it softly with his knuckles. “Good morning, young master. Do I have your permission to enter?”

“ _NO! Go away!_ ”

Sebastian drew his hand back in surprise. The response had been immediate and shrill. How peculiar. Ciel was usually too tired to speak at anything above a murmur at this hour. Was he still angry with Sebastian about last night? No, the boy would just be aloof with him if that were all. Something had to be wrong. “Hmm. I see. Well then… If you won’t allow me in, will you allow Mr. Tanaka?”

“ _I don’t want anyone to come in!_ ”

Ciel’s tone, so steeply pitched, said this was a fresh wound. Sebastian wondered what he could possibly have done now without doing anything at all. “Young master… you are concerning me. I ask again–”

“ _I said don’t come in, damn it! Why can’t I just be left alone? Why are you always bothering me? I hate you these days! Go away and don’t come in until I say so! Go away **now!**_ ”

If Sebastian were a normal human, he would have walked inside in a heartbeat to see what the fuss was about. But he was a demon bound by contract, and his intuition told him that opening the door now would in fact not be better for Ciel’s well-being.

And so his only choice was to leave.

Tanaka didn’t have a smile to offer when Sebastian regaled the details. He listened, and then hurried off in the direction of Ciel’s room himself. When he knocked on the door, the response was the same. “ _Didn’t you hear me the first time? I said to leave me alone!_ ”

“It’s Mr. Tanaka, young master. Please allow us inside.”

Tanaka’s tone was so much more businesslike than usual. Ciel seemed distressed by it. “ _No, you can’t come in! I don’t want anyone to come in! Leave me alone! Don’t bother me anymore! I don’t need anything! I don’t want anyone to see me right now!_ ”

Tanaka and Sebastian exchanged glances. “You sound very nervous,” Tanaka said cautiously. “I really feel I should–”

The door’s hinges rattled loudly as if Ciel had thrown himself against the entrance. “ _The door is locked and I don’t want you to open it, and if you do I won’t speak to you about any of this, so just go away until I say so! Go! _”__

____

____

It was hardly an argument, but the desperation in Ciel’s voice made both butlers go silent. “All right, young master,” Tanaka said softly, “we won’t open the door. But we will be very near. Please call us when you are ready.”

“ _Fine, just don’t come in until I say so! Leave me alone!_ ”

After a final worried look at the door, Tanaka gestured for Sebastian to follow him a short distance away. “I think he must be experiencing trauma,” he said sadly, “perhaps from a dream or a bad memory.”

“Hmm. That seems a possibility.” Sebastian had seen Ciel in the midst of a panic attack, though, and usually his trauma caused him to want to be near people, just not touched by them. It would be one thing to turn Sebastian away, as hard feelings still lingered from the night before, but Ciel had also dismissed Tanaka. Sebastian couldn’t help but feel this situation was something different. “What do you believe is the next course of action?”

Tanaka sighed out his nose. “Well… it is hard to say. I’m very worried, but I feel perhaps the master’s boundaries need to be respected. I also fear that not attending him will only worsen things. If he does not allow us in by five o’clock, I believe we may have to go against his wishes. By then, he will have gone too long without eating. We should see if we can convince him to break his fast.”

“Hmm. Yes. I believe you’re right.” Sebastian wanted to use his demon abilities to see beyond that door, but he had to resist. He would know if Ciel were in pain or if there were someone else in the room. He did not sense any immediate danger. This only served to heighten Sebastian’s curiosity. Though he was bound by the contract not to lie and to obey all orders, Ciel had no such obligation. Could this perhaps be another trick to get Sebastian to stop scolding him? 

Well, it certainly wasn’t going to work.

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Bardroy folded his arms as he watched Sebastian stir, flip, and prod at various foodstuff over the manor’s impressive stovetop. “Gee, what’s the occasion?” he finally asked past an unlit cigarette. “You usually save the full English for holidays n’ company. N’ it’s not any holiday I can think ’a.”

“It isn’t a holiday,” Sebastian said, tipping the sausages a quarter-turn so that they sizzled perfectly in their skins. “The young master is refusing to come out of his room this morning. I am seeing if I can tempt him out with a breakfast more extravagant than the usual.”

Bard lowered his shoulders. “Refusin’ t’come out? Oy, that can’t be good, can it?”

Tanaka and the chef alike seemed to think Ciel’s reclusive behavior was more of a worry than a gimmick. Sebastian still wasn’t certain. “It isn’t good, but he must come out, or else he won’t have anything to eat.”

“He has been eatin’ a bit more than usual lately, hasn’ ’e?” Bard said with a grin, scratching at his stubbly chin with one finger. “He’s always been a small one, I hope this means his age n’ his height are catchin’ up for him. How old is he now? Fourteen? When I was that age, I ate every meal like I was half-starved, I was growin’ so fast. No doubt I could have billied up t’all this here n’ still had room for seconds.”

“No doubt,” Sebastian muttered, practically ignoring him, at least until an idea touched his brain. Bardroy had been young once too. He had been young even more recently than Tanaka. Perhaps he also had a perspective on this matter.

“Bardroy,” Sebastian began, and watched as the chef straightened up for an order, “is it possible you may have an idea why the young master is so reluctant to leave his bedroom?”

Bard blinked and rubbed the back of his neck. “Uh, no, sir. Don’t believe he’d tell me anything he wouldn’t tell you, d’you?”

“No. What I mean to ask for is your own personal opinion.” Sebastian began to plate stewed tomatoes and baked beans onto white dishes. “Let me rephrase the question: when you were the young master’s age, would there ever be any reason you would refuse to leave your room if called?”

“Not if I didn’t want to get a good hiding!” Bard laughed. At Sebastian’s deadpan gaze, he stopped to consider the question more seriously. “Hmm. Well, let’s see. Maybe if I’d been out late all night n’ I didn’t want anyone t’know about it. If I’d gotten my good clothes all ragged, Mum’d throw a fit. Didn’t always like the boys I palled around with. We did all sorts o’ things we shouldn’ta.”

“So you hid when you wanted to avoid trouble,” Sebastian said.

“Well, not every time! I wasn’t that yellow,” Bard laughed again. “But yeah, sometimes I’d try to get out of a mess by keepin’ it to m’self. I’d have to come clean eventually though. Never worked out in my favor.”

“I imagine not,” Sebastian said, a little too bluntly. “Well, I’ve finished cooking, so you can get on scrubbing the pots and pans then. _Gently_.”

“Can count on me, sir!” Bard saluted. Sebastian took the trolley on its way, not really believing Bard could be counted on for this, but at least the chef had given him a potential clue.

Ciel’s bedroom door remained a shield between himself and the rest of the world. Sebastian knocked thrice on the center of its frame. In the room beyond, Sebastian heard a flurry of footfalls as Ciel barricaded the entrance with his body again.

“ _Don’t come in!_ ”

“I’m not going to,” Sebastian sighed. “I wanted to let you know I’ve brought you breakfast.”

Ciel didn’t hesitate. “I’m not hungry!”

“Why not?”

“I’m just _not!_ ”

“Are you sick then?” Sebastian asked. “It isn’t normal for you not to be hungry at this hour.”

“I’m not sick!” A hesitation. “Go away already! I’ll call you when I want you!”

“Regardless of your lacking illness, I am worried about your condition.” Sebastian removed the lids from some of the trays, hoping the smells of streaky bacon and black pudding would leak under the doorway. “Again, just like with the wine, you aren’t taking care of your own body properly. You know I can’t allow you to jeopardize your health. What’s more, you’re not allowing me to do my job by–”

“ _I’m fine already!_ ” Ciel’s voice had jumped back to that shrill octave of terrified anger. “ _I said I’ll call you when I want you, so leave me alone!_ ”

“Young master, I only mean–”

“ _Just **leave!**_ ”

It was off-putting to hear the boy so enraged. As he set off down the hallway at a clip, Sebastian felt irked and tried to convince himself he was merely annoyed at the lack of cooperation. But Ciel was so clearly trying to avoid something… Was he afraid?

Sebastian set his jaw. If Ciel were really afraid, he wouldn’t be going to such great lengths to keep everyone away from him. It was more likely to be what Bard said: Ciel was just dodging trouble. Sebastian left the trolley of food at the end of the hall, where Ciel might be tempted to come after it, and then tried to occupy himself with the usual upkeep of the estate.

That task was easier said than done. There may have been clothes to wash, and a garden to manicure, and horses to feed, and a whole three staff who should be keeping atop those things but weren’t, and yet Sebastian found himself distracted in the middle of each chore as his thoughts dwindled off to the mystery of the day. At eleven, the food trolley had still not been touched. At noon, Tanaka had tried again to sway Ciel to come out and failed. At one, Sebastian prepared an early high tea of wulong with osmanthus flower and orange scones. At two, Sebastian took the food back cold. By three, Sebastian found the human pace he was expected to work at especially aggravating.

“Um… M-M-Mr. Sebastian?”

“What is it?” Sebastian practically groaned, turning away from the kitchen sink to see Mey-Rin standing there with a basket of clean laundry in her arms. “Oh,” he said, “did you finish them?”

“I-I did, sir,” Mey-Rin chirped. “It seemed you might’ve needed some help today, so I took care of the foldin’ after I finished up with the banister, I did.”

“Hmm. Looks like you even did it properly. Very good.” Mey-Rin was glowing pink from the praise, meager as most would find it. Sebastian’s thoughts were still elsewhere. He dried off his hands from washing the china – he would never trust Bard with something so delicate – and slipped back on his gloves. “Now then, since you seem to be the only one capable of doing things right today, I’m going to leave you to clean the silver.”

“M-M-M-Me? Clean the silver?” Mey-Rin squeaked, pointing at herself. “A-Are you sure I’ll do it right?!”

“I’m not, but I have other things to attend to. I’m counting on you then.” Sebastian hesitated in the kitchen doorway. “Ah, right. One more thing.”

Mey-Rin paused in the middle of floundering. “Oh, ahm, yes, sir?”

“When you were younger – around the young master’s age – would you ever hide in your room all day like he is now?” Sebastian asked.

“Oh, dear,” Mey-Rin said. She wrung the end of her apron in her fists. “I am worried about him too, I am. Don’t know what could have him shut away like this.”

“But maybe you do,” he prompted. “Think back to when you were a girl – I don’t suppose it was so very long ago.” Mey-Rin blushed harder at that and Sebastian ignored her again. “Was there anything, if anything, that made you refuse to listen to reason and disobey your family when they called for you?”

“Disobey… Hmm… Well… Let me see…” Mey-Rin pondered this for half a minute. Then she jabbed her pointer finger into the air in remembrance. “Ah! Yes, I do recall one time! But, you know, I couldn’t hide for long, my room didn’t have a lock on it or anything like that, and I was also a terrible liar, and I don’t think I could have resisted breakfast for more than five min–”

“What was the reason?” Sebastian said.

“Ah, yes, the reason! It was because, well, because actually I had broken something…” Mey-Rin poked her fingertips together with fresh embarrassment. “I-I-I know breaking something isn’t such an uncommon occurrence with me nowadays, but well, and not to be rude, but I’m certain nothing I broke in this household would ever be as valuable as a hanging scroll of my father’s I once kicked off the wall and tore through with my foot… I don’t even want to know how many generations it had been in our family! Oh, I’m shaking just thinking about it all over again, I am!”

“I’m not sure I want to know what you were doing to knock it down that way…” Sebastian said under his breath. “Well. That perspective may be useful. As you were.”

“Uh, right, yes! I’ll make that silver sparkle, I will!”

Sebastian had his doubts that Mey-Rin could succeed so many times in one day, but it was three-thirty and nigh time to check on Ciel again. By five o’clock, Tanaka would open Ciel’s door with the manor’s skeleton key and all would be revealed no matter what. Sebastian did not tarry on his way. For a demon who had lived for thousands of years, this particular day felt like a decade in itself.

Another knock to the door. Another clamor as Ciel barricaded it. Sebastian snorted softly – what good did Ciel think his slender body could do against brute force? Well… perhaps nothing. Desperation made men do strange things. “My lord,” he began.

“Oh, when are you going to leave me alone already?”

Ciel’s voice had gone willowy with hunger and emotional exhaustion, it held no more bite. Sebastian did not pity that voice. It had brought this day upon itself. “Young master, I am not going to leave you alone, and it is foolish to think otherwise. You cannot hibernate forever – you will starve first, and I am incapable of letting that happen to you. You will allow me in now, or by five o’clock Tanaka and I shall come in on our own accord.”

A little energy came back to the boy with that threat. “You can’t! I don’t give you permission!”

“The contract cannot keep me from managing your health,” Sebastian reminded evenly. “Self-sabotage is grounds for action on my part. Whether you like it or not, I will enter and your well-being will be seen to.”

“I don’t give you permission!” Ciel reiterated.

“I don’t know what you’ve done,” Sebastian continued, with a calm darkness, “but I know you’ve done something you’re not proud of and you’re trying to hide it from me. Whether you broke an object or a rule, got drunk again or tore apart your bedroom in a fit, I will find out about it. You may as well let me in now, while you have the choice. In just over an hour, that decision will belong to Tanaka and I.”

“I hate you!" Ciel cried, desperate for something to change his mind.

“How natural it is, to hate a demon,” Sebastian said, unfazed. “I should expect no less, should I not? You have eighty minutes to make up your mind. Summon me, or do not, for I will arrive in due time.”

“ _No you won’t! I won’t summon you, so stay away from me!_ ”

A simple argument from a weary mind did not break Sebastian’s resolve. It was time to do what he should have done long ago. Much as he disagreed with the woman, he needed to involve the Marchioness of Midford herself – Ciel’s aunt Francis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally one chapter, but after realizing how long I'd made it, I decided to split it in two, hence the cliffhanger.
> 
> I keep getting tripped up when editing my own work, because I have a job that involves editing, and some of the formatting decisions we make are different than what I would do myself. I'll see an ellipse and be like "Oh, that's wrong, it needs a space on either side," but it doesn't... it can just be like that. Don't suppose my brain will ever stop getting tripped up.
> 
> Well, in any case, I hope to see you again in a few weeks or so!


	4. The Butcher

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually forgot that Snake existed when I was writing this. Well, he's not employed in the manor in this universe. I hope he's having a good time, wherever he wound up.
> 
> Edit: I changed all mentions of Thames to Oxford. I knew the Thames was a river, but for some reason I thought the Black Butler wiki said Weston College was _in_ Thames. No, it just says it's along the Thames, and Thames is not actually a town, so I'm going to headcanon that the college is in Oxford instead.

With no mortal eyes watching, Sebastian moved nimbly through the surrounding woods towards the Midford manor, “like the devil was at his heels,” some might say. Behaving as a demon always helped clear his mind from the mortality that boxed him in. For the first time that day, he felt able to think properly.

There were few humans that Sebastian found impressive in any right, and this contract alone had introduced him to a small handful. Francis Midford was one of these humans. She was a force to be reckoned with; her voice alone brought lesser men to cower (Bard, for instance). And having brought up two children, who were fierce in their own way but perfectly happy, no doubt she also possessed a maternal instinct in her bosom… erm, somewhere. Either way, she was more equipped to deal with this childish behavior than Sebastian. Ciel would have no choice but to obey his strictest family member, unless he wanted to embarrass himself by opposing her.

Sebastian quirked an eyebrow. Just thinking that had made him feel… something. He couldn’t quite locate what it was, but he knew what it was in relation to, and he didn’t like it. It was like worry, but not quite; pity, but not quite; and understanding it couldn’t be, for Sebastian was a demon and the human experience was not his to know.

He had never wanted to know it either. He preferred to observe humans at a distance, like a biologist without a hypothesis. At arms’ length from their emotions and suffering, that was where he stood, and happily so. Yet, all of a sudden, it was as if he’d taken a step closer to his test subject without meaning to, drawn in to its habits, as if forgetting this would ruin the experiment. Everything he’d worked for.

The meal.

Sebastian grinned subtly as he raced. He was not a biologist. He was a killer, and merry to be so.

On this dreary spring day, the English countryside was quiet. It was the end of March, and the social season had weeks yet to truly begin. Ciel did not like that time of year. He did not like to abide expectations, but he was still a member of polite society, and Lizzy had graduated from wanting to show off her latest dress to wanting to show off her fiancé. Yes, the social season would be good for Sebastian, even if it weren’t for Ciel. The boy would be taken out of his house and Sebastian would be taken out of his position as Ciel’s primary companion. Out to the flock, out of the fold, for a wolf in sheep’s clothing is no substitute for a sheep.

As Sebastian let his inner compass guide him, his keen eyes detected movement miles away, departing from the Midford manor. He fell back into his butler mindset at that – was Lizzy coming to meet Ciel out of the blue? No, it was not a carriage, but a single man on horseback. Thank goodness – a spontaneous visit might only dig Ciel deeper into himself. He had considered his own trip to the Midford’s enough of an emergency that he need not announce himself prior, but perhaps something was amiss for their family as well.

Sebastian dropped below the trees and proceeded to walk at a mortal’s pace down the semi-groomed paths of London’s backwoods. Minutes later, the rider appeared and Sebastian flagged him down. He recognized the man, though he did not know his name, and the young fellow clearly recognized Sebastian back as he slowed the horse to a gentle gait. He wore the attire of a footman and couldn’t hide his surprise to see an esteemed member of the Phantomhive staff walking to the Midford estate as if it were no more than a stroll.

“Mr. Michaelis!” the footman cried, hopping off his horse and bowing his head politely. Sebastian wasn’t sure if he should be impressed with the young man for recalling his name or with himself for being so memorable. “I was just riding to the Phantomhive manor to deliver a letter and here you are, all by yourself, no horse in sight! Goodness! Is something the matter?”

“Nothing of urgency,” Sebastian decided to answer. “I’d like to ask you the same thing.”

“Nothing of urgency,” the footman repeated. He reached inside his jacket and took out a letter, sealed with the Midford’s wax stamp. “The house just received this for Master Phantomhive, to be delivered as soon as possible, we were told. It’s merely an invitation though. The Midford family is currently visiting Master Edward at college. When they arrived, they discovered there’s to be an early cricket match next week, and young Lady Elizabeth wanted to make sure Master Phantomhive knew about it, so that he might join them.”

“Ah,” said Sebastian. “So, they’re not at home right now?”

“I’m afraid not,” the footman said. “They didn’t intend to be away for long, or else I’m sure they would’ve informed your house.”

“I see.” Sebastian put a hand to his chin. Well, that certainly didn’t resolve the matter of the day. It would take too long to bring the marchioness back from her holiday to make the request worthwhile. Which meant Sebastian would have to deal with this after all…

“Mr. Michaelis?” The footman extended the letter. “Is there any sort of message you need us to regale to the marquis and marchioness? Is all well?”

“Well enough. If they are not home, it is of no trouble. I will make sure my lord receives the letter.” Sebastian tucked the parchment into his own jacket as the footman politely nodded his leave. “Wait a moment. I have something to ask of you, if you aren’t in a hurry.”

The footman stepped forward obligingly. “Of course, sir.”

“Firstly, were you raised by your parents or did you grow up in the manor?”

If the footman was puzzled by the arbitrariness of the question, he didn't show it. “Ah, both,” he said, scratching at the back of his pearly blonde hair. “My father and mother, they both work for the Midfords. I was raised to help where I could, until I was old enough to have a proper position.”

“Hmm. Then this may not apply, but… would there ever be a time when you were summoned by your parents and refused to come?”

The footman blinked at that. “I... Hmm. Not that I can think of.”

“Never a time you were too ashamed to approach them about a mistake?” Sebastian tried. “Perhaps you broke something, or had been reckless?”

“Oh certainly I had broken things and was careless,” the footman said with a smile, “but, you see, I was never too afraid to tell my father what I had done. He is a patient man to this day. When I made a mistake, he was the first person I would go to, because even if he were upset, he would always help me make things right again.”

“… Is that so,” Sebastian said quietly.

“I should hurry back to the manor now, if it’s not a problem,” the footman said, mounting the horse again. “Are you sure there’s nothing you needed?”

“Never mind it.” The butler turned on his heel. “I believe… we shall be able to handle things from here.”

The young horse stamped impatiently and tossed his head homeward, and the footman turned to quell the beast. “What is it that needs to be handled?” he asked. When there was no reply, the footman glanced back around, only to see empty space behind him. Sebastian had already departed. It was as if he hadn’t been there at all.

❧┅┅┅┅┅┅♙┅┅┅┅┅┅♖┅┅┅┅┅┅♘┅┅┅┅┅┅♔┅┅┅┅┅┅♛┅┅┅┅┅┅♞┅┅┅┅┅┅♜┅┅┅┅┅┅♟┅┅┅┅┅┅❧

He did not knock. He did not scold. He merely called out, “My lord.”

“Go away.” The response was directly from the other side of the door. Ciel was still leaning against it, hopeful of barring the entrance, no doubt.

Sebastian kept his voice steady. “I am not going to go away.”

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Very well. You don’t have to speak. But I will.” Sebastian lowered his chin a fraction. “I am sorry.”

It was silent, but only for a moment. “Why?”

“Because,” said Sebastian, “I have been hearing you, but I have not been listening to you.”

Ciel said nothing.

“I know something now,” Sebastian continued. “I know why you are in your room.”

The boy panicked. “What?! No! But how could you–? I told you not to–”

“It doesn’t matter what it is, specifically.” Usually he wouldn’t interrupt, but this time it seemed necessary. “What I know now is that you are in your room because you are afraid of what we, Mr. Tanaka and I, will think of you. You are afraid of our disapproval.”

Again, a wall of silence.

“I wanted to tell you,” Sebastian said softly, “that I will not disapprove of you.”

Silence.

“It does not matter what it is you have done. What matters is your health, and the knowledge that there is nothing you could do to lose our good graces.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Do not forget what I am, young master.” Again, his tongue swept his eyetooth reflexively. Perhaps he had grown a bit too used to flaunting his fangs at prior contracts. “Whatever has happened, I am certain to know worse.”

“…” He heard Ciel stand up. “That doesn’t mean you won’t think of less of me.”

“I will not think less of you.”

“You can’t prove that!” Ciel cried.

“I can,” Sebastian said. “You are a human. No matter what has come to pass, you will still be a human. Nothing more, nothing less. And few know better than you and I what horrors humans are capable of. I cannot imagine any ‘crime’ you have committed today would compare.”

Ciel gave no response but silence. A minute passed, two, in this way. Then Sebastian’s gaze flicked back to the door when beyond it, light as a doe’s step, Ciel’s feet padded across the carpet and over to his bed, and there was a rustle as he folded the blankets around him. Sebastian wondered if he was about to be dismissed again, when the muffled and delicate words were spoken: “Okay. You can come in.”

Sebastian felt something in his chest relax as a temporary restriction of the contract was dropped. The door was no longer a barrier between he and his charge. The door was merely a door. So Sebastian brought his hand to the knob and opened it.

The room was not in disarray. It was a bit musty, from having the curtains drawn all day, and dim from not having the candles lit or the sunshine allowed in. There was an unmoving, Ciel-shaped lump beneath the white covers that was, to Sebastian’s surprise, a bit of a relief to see. And there were his clothes unfolded on the floor by his bedside, as they usually were these days. Nothing else seemed to be out of place. Sebastian narrowed his gaze. So far there was no indication of anything amiss. So then why did Ciel seem to be hiding from him?

Asking likely wouldn’t yield a response. _Be patient_ , he found himself thinking. _Watching and waiting has always been your game._

Sebastian withheld his tongueful of questions and, as odd as it felt, proceeded as normal. He drew the curtains to let in a waning spring sun, then lit the room’s lamps too because darkness would not fall but a few hours from then. During all this Ciel scarcely stirred. Sebastian moved around to the other side of the bed and began to pick up yesterday’s outfit from the floor. This would all have to be ironed thoroughly after washing, the young master’s clothes looked best when perfectly creased… Sebastian restrained his usual sigh as he picked the garments off the floor. None of that mattered in the grand scheme of things, not the vest, or the shirt, or the, um… ah…

Ah.

“Young master,” Sebastian said slowly, “did you… sleep in your clothes last night?”

The covers shifted as Ciel curled up more tightly. “Yes,” he finally said, barely a whisper and hoarse with anxiety.

Well. Sebastian huffed out his nose. This was… a surprise, to say the least, but also an entirely small matter. Nothing more than a mark. Though the sheets would have to be changed as well, and he should get these trousers soaking immediately, but… well, it could wait, it had already waited all day. Ciel was clearly feeling some sort of shame about this, as small a matter as it was. The young master had never wet the bed before, but this was different, this was a mark only an adult could make, and Sebastian realized then that Ciel was likely at the age where he would make this mark for the first time.

But oh, had it really been worth all the fuss?

“Young master,” Sebastian said, warming his tone, “this is what you were hiding in your room for all day? Skipping meals over and barricading the door?”

Ciel flinched again but didn’t speak.

“There isn’t anything wrong with you, you know. It’s quite normal for… _this_ to happen when you sleep. Especially around your age.”

The boy’s voice was small when it finally spoke. “I don’t understand why…”

Sebastian waited for him to finish his sentence, but that was apparently all he had to say. Even after perusing those anatomy books, perhaps Ciel didn’t yet know what this was. Sebastian tried to explain things as delicately – and politely – as possible. “Well. I imagine you had this response because of a… a dream you were having.” He coughed. “A… good dream. I suppose. In any case–”

“ _But I wasn’t having a good dream! _”__

Again Ciel’s voice went to that panic place it had been most of the day. His head and shoulders had lifted under the sheets when he shouted, but fell again a moment later. “I don’t understand… I was having a nightmare… That’s why I was… But I don’t know why…” Another block of silence. Then Ciel’s words seemed to tumble out. “They were torturing me, like they were before, with hot knives and hot wax, and I was shouting for someone to help me but no one would come, and it felt real, it felt like I could smell my skin burning, and it lasted so long, when I woke up I didn’t know where I was at first, even though it was just this room… and then… I was like that, I had done _that_ , and I don’t even understand why, because it was such a terrible dream, but if… if _that_ was my response then doesn’t it mean I was happy? Doesn’t it mean I enjoyed it, somehow? How?! Am I some sort of twisted lunatic?!” Ciel smacked his fists against the mattress. “ _What the hell is the matter with me, Sebastian?!_ ”

The shape under the covers shook with fear of itself, the juxtaposition of the dream and his body’s response to it bringing his own sanity to question. What normal person would derive pleasure from such a disturbing experience? All these years later, did it turn out there was actually some part of him that had enjoyed the endless suffering? And what did that say about him, about his future? What would everyone around him think, if they knew the truth? Those were certainly the questions that had been swirling in Ciel’s mind all day, questions that leaked venom and kept him from reaching out, leaving him to face his shock and terror alone.

“Young master.”

Ciel did not speak.

“Young master, there is nothing the matter with you.”

“How can you say that?” the boy choked. “You don’t mean it! You _can’t_ mean it, you’re just saying that so I’ll get out of bed and get on with things, but I can’t pretend it didn’t happen! I’m so disgusted with myself, I can hardly think! How am I supposed to keep going on like everything’s fine when I know this about myself?!” 

Sebastian took a step forward. “Young master, please. There is nothing the matter with you.” 

“Shut up!” Ciel knotted the mattress cover in his hands. “Shut up, shut up, shut up! You know you’re not supposed to lie!” 

“Would you like me to tell you you’re to blame?” Sebastian said. “To tell you that these aspects of your behavior outside of your control are your fault? That you should have done something about which you could have done nothing?” 

“I don’t _know!_ ” Ciel sounded close to tears. 

“What I think,” said Sebastian, more softly now, “is that you are at a strange time of your life, and that it is making you feel confused and angry. I think you had a lot of tension inside of you, because you haven’t felt at peace in a while. There is turmoil, from within and without.” _I’ve been a part of that,_ Sebastian recognized, _whether or not I meant to be._ He pressed on. “Then, on top of that, you had a nightmare about your past, a vivid one. Your body’s response was to relieve some of that tension. And I understand why that was frightening for you. My hypothesis, however, is that there is no correlation.” 

Ciel sniffed. “But what if there is?” 

“Your feelings toward all of this are enough of an indicator, I believe,” Sebastian said. “You’ve been unable to approach anyone all day, so heavy was your guilt. I think that is the strongest argument that you are not possessed by your trauma.” 

The chirping of the evening swallows filled the void that came next. Under the covers, Ciel shifted his weight. “I… don’t feel so well.” 

Sebastian smiled almost imperceptibly. “Understandably so. You haven’t eaten in nearly a day, and I don’t suppose you slept soundly.” 

Ciel sighed. “Mnn.” 

“My lord,” said Sebastian. “You are not quite yourself these days.” 

“I _know_.” There was a minor note of frustration in the boy’s tired voice. 

“Might I make a proposition?” 

“Whatever.” 

“I would like to suggest,” Sebastian began, “that you take a holiday.” 

The boy’s head perked up beneath the sheets. “What?” 

“I’ve just received this letter,” said Sebastian, deciding not to reveal the circumstances of how. “Miss Elizabeth and your aunt and uncle have invited you to join them in Oxford, as they are visiting Master Edward at Weston College. I was informed they thought they would only be staying for a few days, until they discovered an early cricket match was to be held. My opinion, sir, is that you ought to take a break from your studies and work to spend time with your family. I believe their company will do your spirits some good.” 

“… Maybe it would.” Ciel coughed. “I really don’t feel well, Sebastian…” 

Sebastian took a step forward. “In what way, my lord?” 

“I think I’ve made myself sick without food.” Ciel hesitated. “And I still… about… I…” The boy’s face pressed into the mattress. “I don’t know if I’m burning up with fever now or… I feel… completely stupid…” His head jerked up again. “What have the other servants said? They can’t know. Damn it, Sebastian, if you tell them–” 

“I would never say a word, if you did not wish me to,” Sebastian said. “They have been nothing but worried about you, particularly Mr. Tanaka.” 

“Don’t tell him either,” Ciel rushed, voice strained, “I wouldn’t be able to stand it, if any of them knew… I already hate myself enough as it is.” 

There, again, Sebastian felt that stirring inside him, saying he must now reassure and tend to the boy in this moment of self-deprecation. No… there was no need to give in to further kindnesses. He had already done more than was necessary for a butler. Ciel would soon see his family: they would provide the nurture to this tormented nature. “Young master, take the time now to rest yourself. I will bring you something warm to eat swiftly and, if you feel it possible, perhaps a bath afterwards.” 

“Perhaps.” 

Sebastian put a knuckle to his chin. “Young master, are you still too ashamed to come out from the covers?” 

“…” The silhouette beneath the sheets twitched. Caught. 

“You know you will have to emerge eventually.” 

“ _Obviously_.” The voice tried to be defiant but wasn’t quite convincing. A bit of deep gray hair peeked out. “I don’t need you to tell me that.” 

Sebastian chuckled a bit. “How strange it is, to see you for the first time today at such a late hour.” 

The head tucked itself away. “Hmph.” 

Ah, he’d only frightened the fox back into his den. “Come, now. I only meant it was different from the usual. If you cannot face me, how can you expect to face anyone else?” Still no movement. “Young master, please, you may as well get around to accepting it. This is not the last time this will happen to you, I imagine. Though I have little knowledge from prior contracts in such matters, I don’t believe you will ever fully understand why it happens either. I don’t believe the subject of the dream must necessarily be… _connected_ , for you to respond in kind.” 

“… It doesn't?” Finally a bit of interest entered the boy's tone. “So… what you're saying is, it didn't have to mean anything?” 

“To my knowledge, not at all. Either way, it isn't odd for this to happen. Eventually you would need to have this conversation – if not today, in another year or so.” Though, frankly, Sebastian had hoped it would be Ciel and his uncle talking about this instead. “So then, please do take solace in this fact.” 

Ciel had slowly been peeking his way out of the covers at this little speech, and he sat up pondering it without seeming to realize he was out in the open. He was still in his long pajama shirt, which did not hang haphazardly off one shoulder, as it might have when he was younger and slimmer of frame. His hair was limp, his face pale, Sebastian noted. And, with a sudden gurgle alighting the air, clearly very hungry. Ciel clutched his stomach with a blush. 

“Welcome back to the world of the living,” Sebastian chuckled, as if he weren’t the most unfitting being to extend such an invitation. 

Ciel glanced down at his lap. “Thanks.” 

The response was unexpectedly soft and methodical – and grateful. Sebastian felt unsettled by it. “I suppose you’ll be wanting some dinner, now, won’t you, young master? I imagine what you want is something very sweet, but it would be best to be gentle with your stomach. It is easy for a human’s body to believe it is starving, if it goes long enough without food.” 

“Yeah.” Ciel nodded meekly. “Maybe some bread and soup would be good. Do you think?” 

Sebastian hesitated. “Yes… I was just about to suggest such a thing.” 

“And then if I’m able to eat that, I can have something more?” 

“Y-Yes, sir,” Sebastian stuttered in the face of obedience. 

Ciel nodded to himself again. "That'll do.” 

“Very good. Then I will go about preparing it at once.” Sebastian turned to leave, suddenly feeling akin to a trapped rat. 

“Sebastian?” 

Pausing his exit was the most impossible command to obey. “Yes, young master?” 

“I really mean it, don’t tell anyone about this. Not my family either.” Ciel sighed. “I think you’re right. I think I need a break from everything. I feel confused. I don’t know who I am these days. I feel angry about things that I used to accept… Like I used to think that being kidnapped was just something that happened to me, plain and simple, and now it makes me so angry that I want to break things. I’m mad at my parents, and they aren’t even alive anymore. Isn’t that stupid? Even saying this makes me feel stupid. How can I be angry at someone who’s dead? But I think that’s what makes it even worse. I want to yell at them and they won’t even hear me! I want to make them angry too but they aren’t even alive to be angry!” Ciel’s voice cracked on the last syllable and he stopped talking abruptly. 

Sebastian didn’t turn around; if Ciel were crying, he didn’t want to know about it. “It’s been a very long day for you, young master. You will feel better after you eat something.” 

“Y-Yeah. I suppose.” Ciel was barely able to keep his voice composed. 

“I’ll be back shortly with food. Rest well, sir.” 

As soon as Sebastian closed the door behind him, he let bewilderment overtake his features. 

It was _sympathy_ he felt stirring in his rib cage like a wicked potion. Sympathy! In him, a demon! That he could even name it was truly a devastation… and yet, that is what it was! Sympathy, for a human! For his prey! Where was this coming from? Why did it blossom in him now? He had been right to escape the bedroom before it latched onto him fully. There was no way he could allow Ciel to see it etched in his eyes. 

Sebastian could think more clearly when he was not in the boy’s presence. This ended now. Ciel was going to join his family in Oxford. Sebastian was going to tell the marchioness all about Ciel’s behavior (at least, what he hadn’t been barred from revealing). The Midfords would take over the role of caring for Ciel’s emotional needs, and Sebastian could default to the formal butler he’d always been. Yes, that was it. Ciel’s new behavior had forced him into the position of a wet-nurse. He was merely responding in kind to his charge’s desires. All he had to do was delegate the task to someone else, and then he could get his brain back. 

There were men who raised lambs for slaughter and men who raised lambs for wool. Sebastian was not cultivating this soul just so he could leave with his arms full of yarn. Let the shepherds raise the lamb. The butcher could not afford to let his blade falter. 

“Mr. Michaelis! Did the young master allow you in his room just now?” 

Tanaka, again, broke the thinking spell. Sebastian smoothed his features in a heartbeat as the gentlemen hurried the rest of the hall’s length to him. “Indeed, yes, I was allowed in at last,” Sebastian said. He began walking to the stairwell to steer Tanaka out of Ciel’s earshot, even with the bedroom door closed. “I apologize; I’m not permitted to elaborate on my conversation with the master. All I can tell you is that he is quite well, albeit hungry. I can at the very least reveal that there were memories of his past haunting him today. But I think he’s going to be fine, from here on.” 

Tanaka nodded solemnly, then grinned at Sebastian and put a hand on his shoulder. Sebastian restrained a cringe at the gesture. “So you see, even after all your bickering, he has still chosen you as his confidante. You should be flattered.” 

“… I suppose,” Sebastian mustered. “I do believe he already considered me a confidante of sorts, however.” 

“Oh yes, when it came to his work,” Tanaka said, smiling with his eyes, “but I imagine today involved a matter most delicate, one closer to the heart, and you were chosen to handle it. That speaks volumes about how he sees you, you know.” The old man sighed with relief and nostalgia. “The late master, when he encroached on adulthood, was away at school with other boys his age… I’m sure he learned much from watching the upperclassman about what to anticipate, other young gentlemen to question when he was confused. But Ciel has no such privilege. This will likely be far from the last time he requests you as a guide.” 

A demon? Guide a human child through adolescence? What an utterly rich notion. It would have been laughable, had Sebastian not found himself in the position of said ‘demon guide.’ One may as well have the blind lead the blind. No, no, no; this wouldn’t do. Ciel must be immediately dissuaded from considering Sebastian as anything more than his second-in-command. The preparations for the trip to Oxford would begin posthaste. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good luck, Sebastian! You're going to need it...


	5. The Dog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've already left a review so far, thank you for your kind words! If you haven't, please consider it - negative or positive, it doesn't matter to me, but radio silence can be daunting. Thanks!
> 
> Also, I made an edit to the last chapter later in the week, due to a realization: all mentions of Thames have been changed to Oxford. I knew the Thames was a river, but for some reason I thought the Black Butler wiki said Weston College was in Thames. No, it's just along the Thames, and Thames is not actually a town, so I'm going to headcanon that the college is in Oxford instead.

That same evening, Sebastian composed two letters. The first was to the Midfords at their Oxford address, informing them that yes, Ciel would join them within a week’s time to observe the Weston cricket match, and to thank them for the invitation. The second was a formal request (more of a command) to Miss Nina Hopkins that she clear her schedule for an immediate fitting with Master Ciel Phantomhive. Indeed, the letter stated, Sebastian remembered their original appointment in April, scheduled just before the social season was to begin; however, Ciel would be visiting Oxford soon for the first cricket match of the college season and it would do him no good to show up in last year’s fashion. Desperate times called for desperate measures – and indeed Ciel was in desperate need of measurements.

Ciel was at an odd stage of growth, where he no longer possessed any baby fat, except in his face, but he had not started developing an adult musculature either. His arms and legs were growing longer while his torso stayed about the same size, giving him a rather coltish look. Fortunately it meant that Ciel still fit into his clothes, though they were a little short in the wrist and ankle, and that certainly wouldn’t do for an aristocrat of his stature.

The concept of physical growth was another Sebastian was not born knowing. As a demon, he’d had years to master a number of forms. When a contract ended and another began, there was no awkwardness in which he took to his next guise, adorning wings or claws or hooves as if they were mere accessories. Humans had enough trouble navigating their body’s natural changes, and those weren't immediate. Sebastian had witnessed this with contracts in the process of aging. Some fretted about losing their hair and their shapeliness much more than they did about losing their lives. Others peacefully accepted that they had to say farewell to youthful beauty and easy movement.

Sebastian had watched numerous humans fade out of the prime of their lives. He hadn’t spent much time observing humans who had yet to enter it. And for all the burden that came with Ciel’s indecipherable attitudes, watching the boy pilot his growing body was an entertaining bonus.

Thus far, most of Ciel’s physical changes had been rather gradual, so gradual that the boy did not really pay them any mind until the telltale moment that they posed a use or an embarrassment. Tripping had become a much more common occurrence, for instance, what with those legs stretching for new lengths. Watching Ciel trip had become the highlight of Sebastian’s career. It wasn’t to say he was happy to see his charge hurt – the young master only stumbled without falling – but to watch that stoic frown flinch into a look of utter dread was nothing if not hilarious. And then the blushing mortification that followed… Sebastian was always scolded for snickering, but it could not possibly be withheld.

Ciel’s increased height, meager as it still was, brought with it benefits nonetheless. As someone who rarely had to reach up high or climb over obstacles, Ciel discovered these benefits in a very roundabout way: in the bath.

The bathtub was a strange, subtle, unspoken little fiend in the boy’s world. This was due to its length and its finish. The sides of the tub were a very slippery porcelain, kept polished by none other than Sebastian himself. The slipperiness was merely a side effect of keeping them clean, which posed an unintended problem for Ciel. One could not lean against the tub’s walls without slowly sliding deeper into the water. This gave the tub’s user about two minutes of relaxing bliss before they discovered their lips were nearly submerged. Then they would have to go through the troublesome process of pushing their body back into a proper seated position – or at least, this was so if one’s feet could not reach the opposite end of the tub, keeping them suitably propped-up.

Ciel’s feet had long been unable to touch the other side, and so he could not lounge in the bath, an issue of such mild importance that the boy forgot it existed until faced with it each evening. Sebastian would be washing the young master’s hair when he would begin to feel the scalp slowly sinking away from his hands, and then there’d be a little snort of frustration as Ciel nudged his posture higher. The fight for stability was a never-ending one. The thin veil of water between skin and porcelain dissuaded any hope for traction. Ciel was eventually forced to sit on his feet just to stop slip-sliding around like an ice cube in a bowl.

And then the magical evening came when Ciel discovered he could reach his legs out just far enough that his tiptoes finally kissed the other side of the tub. Slick porcelain walls could not defy this natural leverage. With his back pressed against one side and his largest toes the other, Ciel at last soaked in the tub without threat of submersion. It was one of the strangest and most intriguing little victories Sebastian had ever witnessed.

He missed those simple days of missteps and calculated centimeters of growth. The breadth of puberty was a more treacherous landscape, and he and the boy had been plopped in the middle of it without compass or North Star.

Sebastian let Ciel sleep as late as he wanted the following day. It was to both their benefit: being in Ciel’s presence made Sebastian feel unusually wary, ever since that little seed of sympathy was planted in his chest. All he could think to do was deprive it of water and sunlight – deprive himself of Ciel, or at least, of this current Ciel, who needed attention and patience and reassurance and kindness – and, according to Tanaka, who needed _Sebastian_ to fulfill all these requirements.

That was nothing if not the opposite of a demon’s purpose.

What was a demon’s purpose? Sebastian knew that well. It was to trick and charm and seduce God’s precious man off the thorny path to Heaven. It was to build snares out of gold, blood, and promises, three things man could not resist. It was to make man cry and sweat and piss himself as he begged for mercy, on his knees, only understanding at his bitter end that the golden gates would for him stand firmly closed. Most of all, the demon’s purpose was to take the soul into his mouth, into his being, and sup upon its poetry.

Sebastian was a connoisseur. He had tasted a myriad of lifetimes; he had smelled countless bouquets. The revenge-seeker was sweeter than the thief, and the thief could be bitter or sour, depending on his motives, his childhood. Bastards and drunkards had runny, salty souls like tears. The souls of the sick were curdled and textured. Sebastian personally enjoyed the rich gravy that came from the grief-stricken most of all.

“My lord, you are not quite yourself these days,” he had said, and it was true. The ten-year-old Ciel had held more fire and brimstone – he’d shimmered with sheer pride. Again the bath revealed this so. In his younger days Ciel was as unabashed in his nakedness as an Olympian. Now he’d grown shy of his body, only shedding his towel at the last possible second and adorning his toga again at the soonest opportunity.

“You should put new sheets on my bed now,” Ciel had said during last night’s bath, while Sebastian had been scrubbing between his shoulder blades with a large soapy sponge.

“Certainly, sir, after we finish here.”

“No, you should do it now. I want you to. So I have something to sit on when I’m in my pajamas.”

Sebastian sighed and wiped dry his hands. He decided not to question his master, as the day had been a rough one, though the interruption was a little stilting: of course he not intended for Ciel to sit on a bare mattress, he merely meant to change the sheets while the boy relaxed in the water. But if it was to be insisted upon…

When he returned from the bedroom, Ciel told him, “I finished washing my legs myself, so you can get on to my hair.” Sebastian understood the scheme at once. He hoped this wouldn’t become a pattern. Ciel’s new bashfulness was going to make bathtime very complicated if he kept coming up with excuses for Sebastian to leave halfway through each time.

In the long-term, however, these petty annoyances could prove substantial. Adolescence was a different kind of emotional torment, Sebastian was coming to know, an unintended yet self-inflicted kind, and he wondered what sort of flavor this would add to the soul. He forced himself to fantasize about the delicacy until he felt the saliva growing in his mouth and was satisfied in his demonhood once more. Even humans who crooned over piglets and calves ate pork and beef without a second thought. A single spike in sympathy for his prey was no cause for alarm. As long as the end still excited him, Sebastian relaxed in the knowledge that his mind was not lost.

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Ciel didn’t call Sebastian to his bedroom until it was a quarter past eleven. He was sitting up in bed, though his posture was slumped, and his hair had been fluffed up by his pillow even more so than usual.

“Oh my. It would seem you slept deeply, yes, my lord?” Sebastian asked with soft amusement.

Ciel rubbed at his tattooed eye, the innocent blue one at half-lid. “How late is it?” he asked, then immediately yawned, indulgent, mouth stretched wide enough to show off every tooth.

Sebastian smiled accordingly at this display. “Just past eleven, sir – you managed to sleep for over twelve hours. Truly you must have needed the rest.”

The boy nodded groggily a few times.

“Would you like me to bring you your breakfast now, my lord? I began preparing it not long ago; the temperature should still be palatable.”

“Yes, but… in a moment.” Ciel shifted his legs under the covers. He gave his head a hard shake in order to perk up more quickly. “I was thinking… well… I don’t know what I should do with myself today. I mean… I don’t know what sort of Ciel the servants are expecting to see… Though it isn’t as if I care about their opinion,” he corrected sharply, “but I do care about how they respond to me. And if they treat me like some sort of invalid, I’ll get cross with them, see if I don’t.” Ciel sighed, leaning back. “But at the same time, I’m not going to pretend as if yesterday didn’t happen. I just have no intention of ever telling them what I was up in my room for all day.” A blush, the color of a sliced strawberry, hinted the tops of his cheeks. “What I mean is, I don’t know how to respond to them, if they ask why I was in here.”

“You need not answer them, if they did,” Sebastian said. “If they were bold enough to broach such a topic with you, I would be very cross with them myself. The master’s business is not that of the servants’, unless the master wishes it to be.”

“Right,” Ciel agreed, bobbing his chin a bit, as if Sebastian had reminded him of this fact. “Right… Well… I still feel like I should have an answer. I’m worried that if I don’t say something to them, they’ll form their own opinions, and that would be worse than any lie I could come up with.”

“Mr. Tanaka’s first assumption was that you had had a nightmare about your past and it was affecting you, which wasn’t entirely wrong,” Sebastian informed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the other servants thought something similarly.”

Sebastian said this believing it would pacify Ciel, but his response was one of shock. “What? Are you serious? The hell are they talking about my personal problems for?! Is that what they always think, when I’m a bit late in the morning or lounging in my room? That I’m having an attack of panic because I’m _ever_ so _traumatized_?”

“I haven’t any surefire idea what their thoughts are, as I of course haven’t asked them directly,” Sebastian said. “I don’t believe so, though. You may recall that Mey-Rin, Finny, and Bard have had their own experiences with trauma, yet are able to live normal lives. I cannot speak so admirably of them in most cases, but I believe they do know what it is like to have dark memories – what it is to sit with them.”

At last that did quell the boy. “I never thought about it that way,” he said. He breathed out his nose and folded his arms. “Fine. I’ll just let them assume whatever they want then. Saves me the trouble of coming up with some stupid story.”

“Glad to hear it, sir,” Sebastian said. “Shall I bring you breakfast now, then?”

“Yes,” said Ciel, and there was a full tray before him in moments.

He had never been a fast eater or a heavy eater, but these days Ciel did eat with reserved gusto. The plate was always bare when the master declared himself finished. Today was more of the same, not a crumb or speck overlooked. The high-pitched scraping of Ciel’s fork against the floral transferware for a last bite of hash browns reminded Sebastian of the “music” some lesser demons entertained themselves with.

“My, my, I shall have to be careful to wash this dish myself, or Bard will mistake it for a clean one,” Sebastian teased.

Instead of puffing up his cheeks at the remark, Ciel merely lapped at the tip of his fork. “What _are_ you going to do today anyway?”

The young master’s tone had not been authoritative: he was asking out of pure curiosity. Such a strange thing to wonder… Ciel had never professed an interest in his butler’s daily routine before, except when they first met and were training each other. Ah, but it was possible that Ciel had a request and planned to see when it could be done. That was a normal reason for the master to ask such.

“Well,” Sebastian began, “after I finish tidying up breakfast, I was going to check the kitchen storage to measure our current stock of sugar, salt, flour, and the like, and leave orders with Bard for more, if necessary. Following that, I was going to inspect the rain gutters, as they seemed a bit clogged during the last storm. That may also be a good time to examine the state of the chimney flues, to see that they're efficient. Otherwise, my schedule shall not deviate from the usual of preparing high tea and dinner, and keeping the house in good order. Is there something I did not mention that you required me to make time for?”

Ciel shook his head no, sliding the tray off his lap and handing it to Sebastian. “I just wondered where you’d be around today was all.”

“Ah. I see.” Only he didn’t, at least, not entirely. Had that been an indirect request for reassurance, the very reassurance Tanaka had mentioned Ciel needing at this age? Sebastian sincerely hoped not. “Well then, young master–” he held out a hand to help the boy out of bed “–shall we go forth and greet the day together?”

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Ciel was dressed in a black frock coat, a deep grey single-breasted pinstripe vest, and short grey trousers with black stockings beneath. For a spot of color, the tops of the stockings were trimmed with burgundy and a matching ribbon was tied in a loose bow around the boy’s collar. Ciel toyed at one of his earrings, twisting it in the lobe while Sebastian adjusted his sleeve on the opposite hand. Yes, it didn’t quite meet the wrist…

“Ouch,” Ciel hissed lightly.

“Perhaps you should leave that be, hm?” Sebastian smirked.

Ciel didn’t take his hand away, nervously turning at the little gem. “What am I going to _do_ today anyway? You said I should take my mind off my work for a bit. But I can’t decide how to keep myself busy.”

“I hardly expected that to be a hard question for _you_ to answer.” Sebastian straightened up, the outfit passing his inspection well enough. “What were you doing last month, when you were neglecting your lessons and such?”

“Don’t patronize me,” Ciel snorted. His index finger rubbed at the handle of his cane after Sebastian handed it to him – certainly a better habit than stretching the holes in his ears. “I suppose there’re always new chess strategies to test out. Or billiards, I’m finally starting to get the appeal of it. And now that I think about it, I haven’t exercised Irish or Sysonby in a while.” Ciel’s grip on the cane tightened a fraction. “Well, I’d need to ask Bard to help me saddle them if I did that…”

Ah, so there was still some trepidation about facing the staff today. Sebastian chose to let that play out on its own: no more encouragement was to be doled out this morning, or he would just be teaching Ciel to come to him with every little gripe. Not at all the lesson he needed the boy learning just before his aunt was to come into the picture. “I don’t know if your riding boots still fit, my lord – in November you told me they pinched. Fortunately, Miss Hopkins should be in contact with me soon to tell me if she can get you in for an early fitting. We should have her measure you for shoes as well.”

Ciel kicked out his right foot in the high-heeled lace-ups he currently adorned. “I can only wear these with thin stockings now, too, or else my toes feel cramped. Let’s visit a cobbler soon and place an order for all-new pairs.”

“Perhaps just a few while your feet are growing,” Sebastian suggested. “It wouldn’t do you any good if they were too small by the time they arrived. Custom shoes take a while to make properly.”

Ciel blinked and craned his neck to gaze down at his feet. “Do you really think they’ll grow that fast?”

“It’s always a possibility.” Much as he had yet to learn about adolescence, Sebastian was not unfamiliar with the sight of a young man whose shoe size had reached adulthood before the rest of him.

Ciel cocked one ankle, then the other, looking somewhere between baffled and impressed with his feet. “All right then. Only one new pair for a while yet.” He took a large step forward; the conversation seemed to puff him up. “Well, it’s high time I got the day started – it’s already past noon. I’m going to my study. You go off wherever it is you have to go. Goodbye.”

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The rain gutters on the east side of the house were especially stuffed with dead leaves dating all the way back to November. Sebastian knelt on the edge of the roof and fished out the debris with a trowel. This was just another one of the many tasks he would never offer to Bard or Finny: if they didn’t break their necks, they’d break at least a hundred shingles. It did feel hardly the head butler’s role to be doing this though. Was there even a graceful way to unclog a rain gutter? If anyone could make a ballet of this scrub work, it was Sebastian, but he reserved his energy for other matters today.

There was a distant whinny, and Sebastian looked up to see the postman’s arrival in the drive. Ah, there was Nina’s response: he was never sure what manners to expect of the woman, and it was good that she did not tarry. He sprung down from the rooftop behind the house, so the postman would not see his acrobatic descent, and accepted the message with a courteous nod, then opened it promptly.

_I will arrive tomorrow, March 31st, at noon. Please have a room ready in advance for taking measurements and to act as my workspace._

The only addition to the message was a large, swooping signature that occupied almost the entire rest of the parchment. The terseness of the letter seemed to convey an irritation at the short notice; she did not even properly address the master, how shameful. Well then, she could expect to be paid handsomely in money and lectures alike. Sebastian never had a shortage of words for that coquettish tradeswoman.

Sebastian took a respite from his chores to bring the letter to Ciel. Sensing for the boy’s presence found him in the library, rather than his study, and Sebastian went on his way with a knowing smile. Perhaps he could have guessed as much. Surely those anatomy books would be particularly enticing today…

But if one was having a conversation, they certainly couldn’t be reading. As Sebastian approached the door, he was immediately aware of a familiar voice in the room.

“I felt very helpless yesterday, hearing you speak like that.” It was Tanaka, of course. His words were laced with that perfect concern best captured in the voices of the elderly. “I so desperately wished there was something I could have said, but I didn’t know where to begin. I was afraid of making the situation worse.”

“It isn’t your job to say anything.” A pause. “In that moment… it hardly felt like me. I don’t even associate that person with myself. You shouldn’t either.”

“But… it is a _part_ of you, young master.”

“Well of course I know _that_. I’m not mental.” Another pause. Ciel’s voice slowed down as he mulled over the best way to explain his experience. “It was more like… a little child overcame my thoughts all of a sudden. Yes, that’s it. There’s just something inside me that, when it gets anxious, snatches up the reins and shoves the real me out of the way, and doesn’t give me control again until it’s made me look completely ridiculous. I don’t know why and I don’t like it. I despise having to clean up its mess in the end. But it’s all I can do.” His voice had an airy ring to it, as one who dismisses a mere trifle.

“I don’t think it’s ridiculous, young master. I feel a bit sorry for that child.”

Ciel was very quiet for a moment. Sebastian could hear the grandfather clock inside the room ticking. “It isn’t something to feel sorry for. It’s annoying and it doesn’t listen to me.”

Tanaka made a contemplative noise in the back of his throat. “Well… if it doesn’t listen to you, might it listen to somebody else?”

“I have no idea, and I don’t care,” Ciel said, not harshly but still in a way meant to finalize the conversation. “I really don’t. I really just hate it. This discussion is tedious for me, and it’s all its fault. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

To Sebastian’s surprise, Tanaka did not allow the subject to close there. “What I think, young master, is that this ‘child’ is trying to tell you something. I think he deserves to be listened to, as much as I know he’s been a bother for you. Perhaps that would help you understand why he’s there in the first place.”

“ _It_ ought to listen to _me_ , not the other way around,” Ciel said defiantly. “That’s all I have to say about it. Let’s not speak on this anymore. Do you have the letters written for Cavendish and Kashyap about mass-producing those fried Indian sweets? What are they called, jelly-something? Jelly bees※? Good, have them sent promptly. Then, would you mind telling Sebastian that I’d like to have tea shortly? And some lunch as well?”

By the time the senior butler left the study, Sebastian had practically materialized behind the next corridor, out of sight.

There were not many in Ciel’s inner circle that could do what Tanaka had done just now. Aside from Lau and Undertaker, Ciel always did tend to be gentler with those he had known before the contract. They could tap into some softness in him that Ciel barred all newcomers from seeing. Sebastian considered it a good fortune that he had overheard this conversation by chance. He was, of course, not high enough on Ciel’s totem pole to know such secrets. And gladly so.

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“I had a strange conversation with Mr. Tanaka just now.”

Ah, no, how could he forget: he was the totem pole’s watchman⸸.

“He was asking me about yesterday,” Ciel continued, after Sebastian laid a plate of spring greens and radishes in a light balsamic before him. “He said he didn’t need the details – thank God, and I wouldn’t have told him anyway – but he asked me if there was anything he could have said in the moment to make me rational.” Ciel took a bite of the salad, made a bitter face, and drenched the vegetables in more of the vinaigrette he’d been offered from a tiny silver pitcher.

Sebastian stood by silently. Bound to the truth, there was only so much he could insinuate without revealing he’d overheard the conversation already, and he waited to see what the young master would catch him up on.

Ciel swallowed his mouthful. “He got me thinking, about how I really felt in that moment, when I was so ashamed and I didn’t want anyone to find out. I felt like I wasn’t myself. I felt like an entirely different person, but I had no willpower over him. I had to give in to his demands until I’d finally wrestled back the control.” Ciel shook his head, smirking a bit. “It’s like a disease, like my asthma – I can’t help but let this other being take control, just like I can’t help the coughing when it grips me. I’ve been so embarrassed about this alternate self for so long. But now I wonder if I should be. I wonder if there’s some parasite inside of me that makes me this way.” He tipped his chin at Sebastian. “Is there such a thing, some little organism that can get inside your skull and change your behavior, up inside your brain? Do you know of it?”

Would that there could be. “Sir, there is no such thing inside you.”

“Tch.” Ciel immediately grew frustrated. He banged his fist and the handle of the fork against the tabletop. “Lovely. And here I hoped for _some_ way out. So then what you’re telling me is that all my thoughts were my own yesterday, and I’m absolutely crazy to try to attribute them to some other entity.”

“You are far from ‘crazy,’ my lord,” Sebastian said. “Even if such anxieties are a part of you, as you say, it does not mean they are without impulse.”

“Well then where the hell are they coming from?” Ciel demanded. “I hate behaving like that, like a spooked horse, it’s so embarrassing. I want to stop letting my feelings in the moment take control of me.”

“Young master, I do believe that is the result of being human.”

Ciel crossed his arms, flopping back against his chair so that it rocked briefly on its hind legs. “But other people don’t _act_ like that,” he whined.

“‘Other people,’” Sebastian said, “haven’t been through what you have.”

It was spoken as an observation, but with a jolt Sebastian realized his words might have been served with a generous helping of sympathy – that accursed thing that was surely his parasite to bear. The grandfather clock spoke when neither of them did, a three-beat chime followed by those endless metronomic ticks.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Ciel finally said, to Sebastian’s masked relief. “You told me that you heard back from Nina when you first came in. So? What is it then?”

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Sebastian was not blind. No, he could see with perfect clarity the circumstances he had put himself in. Whatever he had spoken to Ciel yesterday evening, whatever _sympathy_ had seeped into his tone, it had increased the boy’s trust in him exponentially. He had not meant to convey to Ciel that he was now his surrogate, his lead through adolescence. Neither does the moon intend to change the tides: it merely does so by existing, locked in its eternal dance with Earth.

And like the moon, Sebastian was such a product of nature. Humans saw him quite the opposite, but the demon knew better. Following his instinct had merely gotten him in trouble this time rather than the other way around. So a dog ate chocolate and poisoned himself, so Sebastian comforted his charge and betrayed his purpose for existing. But nature prepares her children for their mistakes, and so the dog will not die if he eats grass to make himself vomit. And forever will the scent and taste of chocolate repel the wise dog.

Sebastian would take advantage of the boy’s newfound trust one last time. Then it was over. He could never allow Ciel to associate him with a guardian’s attention or patience or reassurance or kindness again, for these were fodder for the awful talon of sympathy that clutched Sebastian to its feathered breast. 

It was ten-thirty in the evening. Ciel was in bed early, earlier than he had been all month, not having been up for even twelve hours, quite awake but lying down for an attempt.

“I don’t know how I should be able to sleep very quickly,” he said, hands folded beneath his head on the pillow, “but I suppose I should at least try. Aunt Francis won’t be very impressed with me if I’m not awake on-time for the cricket match this Friday.”

Sebastian smirked. “If only I had known that sending you off with your family would solve the sleeping matter sooner,” he mused, knuckle to his chin. “We may have had fewer arguments, at any rate. Well, I for one am pleased with your due diligence. If you keep it up, your efforts to turn your late-night habits around will not be in vain.”

Ciel pouted thoughtfully, looking away. “It was your idea to try, though.”

“Yes. But you did not have to act on it.”

“I suppose.” Ciel shrugged. “I’m only saying… maybe I wouldn’t have done it if someone hadn’t told me to. It wouldn’t have occurred to me.”

This was the day’s second indirect request for guidance. It reminded Sebastian of the task at hand. _Take advantage of the boy’s newfound trust one last time. Then it is over._ “You are not tired at all, yes, young master?”

“Not a bit. I could count a thousand sheep before my eyelids started to droop.”

“Then… before you try to sleep, perhaps you would be open to a discussion of a more personal nature?”

“A… personal nature?” Ciel looked uncertain.

“More of a recounting, actually. It need not be so personal, and you do not have to answer me, again, if you do not want to.” Sebastian gave the smallest hum of a laugh. “And I shall 'muck out' the stables, if that punishment still stands.”

Ciel lifted up his head to glare at him with sidelong confusion. “What? What are you on about now?”

“Please pardon any impertinence, my lord, but I wanted to address again the occurrence at the Shrove Tuesday party between you and the young man from the Reubin family.”

Ciel hesitated, breath crackling in his throat a bit, then said, “That? That was over a month ago.”

“It was,” Sebastian conceded, “but… I felt a change in you that night. I think you may have as well. And I think we can both agree that this is the first day in a while that we have been on good terms with each other. If you’re willing to recollect, I would be very curious to know.”

“Hmm.” Ciel leaned back in the pillow a bit, sighing out his nose, and closed his eyes. He contemplated this quietly. Then his brow slouched. “Ugh, it was just… It was really stupid, Sebastian. I don’t know. My mind is so scattered these days. It jumps from thought to thought and comes up with all sorts of things, I don’t always know how it gets where it does – I just find myself there.”

Sebastian gave a more contemplative hum. _My most recent thoughts have behaved in kind._ He waited for the boy to tell his story.

“So, Lyle Reubin had forgotten his manners at home, and Jane was near to tears she was so ashamed,” Ciel began, knitting his fingers together and placing them at the base of his throat. “The other girls were getting frightened and upset. I knew if anyone was going to say something, it would have to be me. And besides, that stupid boy was being as bad as a drunk! It was getting on my nerves! So of course I told him off!”

There was a glimmer of the confident, irritated young master Sebastian knew best. It faded into melancholy all too fast.

Ciel had been toying with the top sheet, absentminded in his actions. “I said something like, ‘You’re spoiling this party for everyone else, you’re an awful nuisance.’ And he said, ‘That’s what all my teachers said about me too.’ So I replied, ‘Then it’s no wonder they kicked you out of school.’ Which, in hindsight, was a bit rude, especially towards his sister, but Lyle had really said so himself in the first place.” Ciel shrugged, chewed his lip briefly. He seemed not to want to speak more.

“The way he responded next,” Sebastian prompted, “was jarring to you somehow.”

Ciel pulled up his knees and huffed again, fussing over how to go about saying what came next. “Well, what he said was,” Ciel began, and stopped. He rambled to himself instead, “I’m ridiculous, letting it bother me like I did… I hardly even understand how I made that connection, or why I spent so much time on it, it’s silly…”

“Perhaps that conclusion can be reached, if you tell me what it is he said to you.” Sebastian spoke calmly, but inside he was equal parts intrigued and tentative.

“Well, what he said was, ‘Maybe I got kicked out on purpose, because nobody believed me when I said I was in danger.’” Ciel was red-faced when he finally got the words out. Sebastian wasn’t entirely sure where this hot embarrassment came from but made no comment. He was careful not to do anything that might keep his charge from at last revealing the dark cellar of his doubt. “And the way he looked at me when he said it, I knew that he really _had_ been in danger… or, at least, he thought he had been. Either way, he wasn’t lying to me.” Ciel tucked some stray hair behind his ear. Swallowed. “And the way his eyes were, it reminded me of… of myself, when I was younger, I mean. The way he spoke mostly though. And it… It’s stupid, but he made me… jealous.”

Sebastian cocked his head to one side. “Jealous?”

“I know, I _know_ , I said it’s stupid!” Ciel’s face was burning.

Sebastian patched it up quickly. “I don’t believe it’s stupid. I believe it is important. Won’t you explain, young master?”

Fortunately that had been the right thing to say. The boy’s skin still glowed, but he admitted, “I was jealous that he could just get out of whatever trouble he was in by acting like a little child. He made me start thinking about when you brought me back to the mansion, when I was just ten. All I did was focus on becoming an earl and becoming an adult, and I didn’t want to think about that horrible month at all, I didn’t want to acknowledge what I’d been through.

“But it’s been a few years and thinking about it is different now, and it makes me angrier than ever before. Like I said yesterday, I’m mad at my parents, and I’m mad at the London police for not being able to find my captors, and I’m even mad at Lyle, who’s got nothing to do with any of this – I’m just mad because he was complaining when he wasn’t even in as much danger as I was! I just want to scream at everyone, ‘You don’t understand anything!’ But that would be the most childish of all, and so I can’t say a word. I feel like a firework about to go off. I just feel wretched and stupid all the bloody time.”

Ciel finished his tirade with a ragged exhale. 

_Oh, the layers of grief this soul was wound up in…!_

This is what Sebastian thought. But what was the tone of that thought? Sebastian himself was not sure. He decided it must be bloodlust over the meal. It _must_ be.

It _had_ to be.

But whether or not it was… it was due time to close this book.

“Well then,” Sebastian said, clapping his hands twice, as if to brush the conversation off, “isn’t it much better when we tell each other what’s really going on? Perhaps we would have gotten on a lot better these past few months if I had known what had truly been ailing you. So let this be a lesson in clearer communication between the two of us. Yes?”

Ciel blinked at Sebastian with lost, puzzled eyes. “That’s… Is that all you have to say about it?”

“Young master,” said Sebastian, amiable as a street vendor, “I am qualifying that I understand your perspective. You experienced a delay in your grief. You are coming to terms with your past. It is causing you to change the way you see the world – your world. It even changed the way we respond to each other. So I am very relieved to know your perspective at last.”

“Do you know my perspective?” Ciel regarded the small mounds his feet made beneath the covers. “I don’t know if I know it.”

“I’ve troubled you,” Sebastian said. “I did not recognize the answer to my question would be so complicated, emotionally, for you. I did not mean to cause a stir right before you are about to sleep. You hardly needed that.”

“No, it’s…” A pause. “It was good… that you asked.”

Sebastian dipped his head. “And it’s good that you think so. But now I should leave you alone, to your sheep.”

“Alone, to my sheep,” Ciel repeated softly. “I will make for a real shepherd tonight: I feel I will keep vigil for hours before I am finally able to rest.”

“The shepherd that cannot sleep is too busy watching for wolves,” Sebastian said, stealing the flame from the bedside paraffin lamp, the last light in the room. “I urge you to think of sheep, not wolves, if you wish to drift off.”

Ciel pressed his chin into the pillow he’d had since his youth, his greatest physical comfort. “A shepherd and his sheep are much more at peace,” he mumbled, “when the shepherd has a dog.”

Sebastian froze in the darkness. This metaphor… If Ciel were the shepherd, was the dog a simulacrum for Sebastian himself? Luckily this proved not to be the case – Ciel finished a moment later, “And I have no dog, so I must keep counting until I can count no more.”

Sebastian relaxed then. “Goodnight, young master. I wish that sleep is fast on your heels.”

The door, yesterday’s wall, today’s drawbridge, shut at the demon’s back. And from that moment on, Sebastian vowed he would never allow sympathy to so shape his actions again.

Three days. Three days until they would travel to Oxford, and Sebastian would deliver the child to his family. He saw these days stretching before him as bright as the suns that would dot their skies, blinding, inevitable. There were things to do about Ciel. Get him outfitted. Get his suitcases packed, his hair trimmed. Be his pawn or be his knight, but be no longer a thing wrapped around his finger, unless that thing is a serpent.

A serpent, a serpent. A serpent, not a dog. Ah, but Ciel had not appointed Sebastian the role of the dog – and in the moment, Sebastian had been so relieved not to be labeled the canid that he hadn't bothered to ask what it _did_ label. He chuckled without merriment. Of course, the Reubin boy mystery would be solved just as a new riddle presented itself, and it would nibble at his brain just the same as the last.

The night’s darkness brought with it time for turning questions over. If Sebastian was not the dog in the equation… than who or what was?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ※: The fried Indian sweet that Ciel is trying to recall the name of is jalebi. It's a sugary confection cooked in such a way that the outside is crisp but the inside is syrupy, and it's a very pretty orange color. In actual Victorian times, Queen Victoria's closest companion was an Indian man named Abdul Karim. I don't know if he exists in the Black Butler universe, but if he does, I imagine she might make an effort to weave Indian culture into the English mainstream. Prior to the events in my story, she asked Ciel if he could try marketing some Indian-themed snacks and toys, to see how it caught on, and naturally he agreed to it. Ciel even asked Soma what his favorite sweet was, to which Soma promptly replied, "Jalebi!"
> 
> ⸸: The "watchman" of a totem pole (a wooden pillar meant to commemorate cultural beliefs through carvings, made by certain Native North American groups) was an animal figure sometimes fixed at the top of the structure. Its purpose was to be protective and look after the house or village.


	6. The Flock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! Because this update took a month instead of two weeks, I've uploaded two chapters at once. I hope they turned out well!
> 
> One thing I definitely had some difficulty with was the pacing. I've been planning this for a while and I knew I had a lot I wanted to fit, so I'm curious if anything seems too rushed. Leave a message with your thoughts, if you feel compelled!

“Wake me when we get to Oxford,” Ciel grumbled, immediately plopping down on the plush bench of the first-class compartment and tilting his top hat over his eyes. “I’m going to sleep.”

“Certainly, my lord. Rest well,” Sebastian bid him, settling on the opposite seat and turning his attention to the window.

It was a Thursday morning at the South Western railway. The air tasted of coal smoke and the tang of iron. It was loud with the chatter of humans and the softer discourse of pigeons, as at-home in the eaves as they would be in the cliffs of Norfolk. The train station was perhaps just a bit less busy than usual, seeing as tomorrow was Good Friday and there was no great want to travel far from one’s favorite church. But still the city must function, goods must be delivered, and so for most of London’s population life did not slow, and the sweet, high voices of the beggar children with their baskets of flowers and mandarin oranges rang about the terminal.

And then, with a sharp chugging motion, the train was off and on its way to Oxford. Ciel was jerked a bit with the initial rhythm but was soon lulled by it. He breathed the steady breaths of the sleeping. Sebastian too was able to drop his guard, but for the very opposite reason: Ciel relaxed because he knew he was looked-after, and Sebastian relaxed because he went unobserved by the one being whose judgment mattered – whose judgment, in fact, needed to matter _less._

It would be a three-hour trip, and in many ways all too short. Mainly, Ciel’s sleep schedule had not been revised – if anything it had worsened. When Sebastian had awoken the boy at 10:30 on Tuesday morning, he’d been fixed with such a glare that Sebastian almost forgot the two had been peaceful just the night before. The contract mark spangling that purple eye seemed to glow extra brightly with disdain.

“I barely slept,” Ciel snarled, tightening the covers around his body. “I was tossing and turning for hours. I finally managed to fall asleep just as the sky was getting lighter. I’m going back to bed.”

“Sir, Miss Hopkins will arrive at the manor in a mere ninety minutes. Surely you’ll want to have breakfasted by then?” Sebastian tutted. “Come, come, sit up and open your eyes. It will be easier after you have some tea.”

“Hnnnghh…” Ciel rolled back over, tucking his face beneath the sheets.

“It’s chai tea, to put a spring in your step. A pinch of cinnamon in the brew will help with the fatigue as well.”

Ciel was adamant. “Another half an hour. I can be ready by then.”

Sebastian turned towards the door. “If you wake up now, you’ll have less trouble drifting off tonight. Now, I’m going to fetch your breakfast, so please do your best to have risen by then. It is the early bird who gets the worm, but the surly bird will never be satisfied, so he may as well get the day over with, hmm?”

“Shut _up._ ”

When Sebastian came back with the trolley, Ciel’s eyes were shut with rest again, and he was just as grumpy about the second rousing, if not more so. Breakfast was eaten drowsily, with no discussion. Afterwards Sebastian dressed the boy almost as though he were a doll, tugging the simple attire over his master’s limp frame. He was clothed in merely a white button-up shirt tucked into blue short trousers, Y-back bracers fastening them over his shoulders. This light, single-layered outfit would make it easier for Nina to take her measurements.

“Nina did like working in the drawing room last time, so I’ve set up a space for her in there,” Sebastian said, loudly enough to register in the boy’s half-awake brain. “You can wait for her there, if you so wish… Open your eyes, now, I’ve finished lacing your shoes. That means on your feet, young master.” Ciel slouched up from the bed, eyes barely open. Sebastian put a knuckle to his chin, grinning with one corner of his mouth. “My goodness, are you sleepwalking? Turn around now so I can tie on your eye patch. There we are. Ah, look at this, such long hair. Surely you’ll allow me to cut it today? Last time I believe you asked me to let it alone, but what would your aunt think if she saw how scruffy you were getting?”

“I’m not ‘scruffy!’” Ciel barked, swinging around. “You’re being awfully bold this morning, do you know that? Shove off with the teasing already! I’m too tired to deal with you properly.”

“Oh dear, my apologies,” Sebastian smiled, bowing deeply. “I’ve gotten carried away, I see. Then, do let me know, is there anything I can do for you while you wait for Miss Hopkins, sir?”

“You’ve done enough.” Ciel yawned hugely. “I’ll be in the drawing room. Goodbye.”

“Yes, my lord.” He opened the door for the boy, then closed it promptly to begin tidying up the bedroom.

Perhaps he’d laid on the banter a bit too thick. Sebastian had intentionally been bothersome in his mannerisms, wanting to portray an opposite person than yesterday, one Ciel could not see so much attachment to. Simultaneously, it was important to remember that he was a butler, and a butler did not go about mocking his master’s appearance or lack of sleep all morning long. Neither parental comforting nor ridiculous pestering need there be: it was time to return to that state of bewitching gallantry Sebastian most represented.

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“Miss Hopkins,” Sebastian said flatly, “just what are you doing here?”

He had found Nina walking about the first floor of the manor with her carpet bag as if she owned the place. Instead of being apologetic, she turned to face him with the sauciest glower. “Well, Mr. Stiff,” she snapped, chin raised up, “you might recall that you yourself invited me to come at noon today. Or did that slip your mind already?”

“Miss Hopkins.” Sebastian did not hide his exasperation totally. “Of course I did not forget that you were coming today. However, for you to enter the manor uninvited… It is simply deplorable.”

“For your information, I lowered myself to come through the servant’s entrance – as is _your_ rule for trades people, of which I am _not_ – and no one was there greet me!” Nina jabbed at him with her index finger. Sebastian narrowed his eyes. “Am I expected to simply stand there and wait for direction? Hmph! If anyone is deplorable, it is you and those gents you call a ‘staff!’”

“Of course you are expected to stand there,” Sebastian sighed. “It is just past a quarter till noon; if you had waited only minutes more, I or someone else would have been there to collect you. If this were your first or even fifth impression on the young lord, I should not find you fit to work under this roof again. I can only hope that someday your etiquette will match your talent with the needle.”

“I’m not the one making the Earl wait now,” was Nina’s quip. “If you want to keep talking, by all means do, but I’m ready to get to work and I charge by the minute. And it isn’t your hand that signs my cheques.”

Talent with the needle indeed – her tongue was a needle. “Once you’ve swallowed that enormous pride of yours, you may follow me to where the young lord waits.”

She was in his wake in moments, matching his strides though she was several inches shorter than him, her long skirts swirling around her ankles. Sebastian eyed her with his peripheral vision. At least she had followed one societal custom and was not flouncing around, showing off her bare calves and expostulating on women’s rights. Male, female, to Sebastian it couldn’t matter less, but as a diamond is formed through intense pressures, Sebastian too appreciated souls that strained themselves for the sake of decorum.

“You’re growing,” was the first thing Nina said when she caught sight of Ciel, sitting in an armchair by the window.

“Miss Nina Hopkins has arrived, my lord,” Sebastian announced wearily.

“Good afternoon, Nina,” Ciel said cordially, standing up and pacing over to the duo. Nina had been outfitting Ciel since he was very small, and, for whatever reason, the boy had a place in his heart for this uncouth woman. Perhaps it was because she was very forthright with the truth: Ciel never needed to suspect her of lying, and, for the world’s littlest liar in particular, he placed a high price on honesty. Doubtless Ciel also enjoyed how much of a thorn Nina was in his butler’s side. “Yes, I am growing, which is why we needed you on such short notice. Thank you for making it here today.”

Nina let out a dramatic sigh. “As always, Lord Phantomhive, I am at your service. But I’m afraid even my expertise as a seamstress can’t help the fact that anything I make you today may not fit in just a few short months!”

“A few months? D-Do you really think so?” Ciel couldn’t help sounding a little surprised.

Nina sighed again, putting her hands on her hips. “It’s possible, especially if you take after your father and his broad shoulders. If you keep your mother’s build, maybe not, she always was such a lithe thing…”

Ciel stood taller and lifted his chest. Sebastian smothered a chuckle.

Nina clapped her hands together above her breast, twice. “Well then, we'll just have to keep it simple for today so you have something you can actually wear, and we'll worry about designing outfits when we have more time at our next meeting. Now, now, up on the stool, chip-chop! Out with your arms, do just as I say, and we'll take these measurements in record time.”

With Sebastian’s aid, Ciel stepped atop the stool, obedient as a circus lion. Nina opened her carpet bag of tricks on the table nearby and began to lay out her tools like a surgeon with his scalpels. She turned over her shoulder to chat as she organized.

“And before I forget, while you have me here today, we should make the final alterations for your Easter outfit – I don’t believe we ever finished up that session months ago. You’ll be taking that with you to Oxford, yes?”

Ciel’s eyes widened with realization and he clapped a hand to his forehead. “Easter! That’s coming this weekend, isn’t it? Good grief, I completely forgot!”

Sebastian knew Ciel cursed himself not for any religious reason, but for the patience he’d have to award Lizzie on one of her favorite holidays, which to her was a celebration of newborn animals, pastel colors, and sweet foods.

“I couldn’t forget Easter if I tried,” Nina shook her head, unraveling her measuring tape and walking over to the boy on the stool. “So many requests for Easter gowns and Easter dresses and Easter bonnets… There goes all my faille and taffeta, and right before the social season too! Ah, but can the lady help herself? If she wasn’t married off in her first social season, she’s apt to spoil herself in the second. Poor unloved little sparrows! How I’d marry them all if I could!”

“Marry them all off, you mean?” Ciel said.

Nina clucked her tongue, pleasantly amused. “You are very cute, Earl,” she fawned. Before Ciel could ask her what the devil she meant by that, she went on, “I imagine it’s a relief to already be engaged. Courtship is an awful game. You should see what these young women put themselves through. It’s a ridiculous society we live in, where people can’t fall in love with whomever they want, whenever they want! To structure the ways of the heart is to structure nature itself. It’s absolute poppycock.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Ciel shrugged, then froze as Nina reminded him to stay still.

Sebastian went to the young master’s dressing room to retrieve the Easter attire – a pale yellow vest and trousers, both with gray pinstripes, not at all the master’s color but Lizzie held the reins here – and when he returned, the measurements had been finished. Ciel was sitting on the stool now, yawning into his hand, while Nina hovered over the table, ticking something off on a piece of scratch paper and muttering to herself.

“I knew this day would come,” she finally announced, almost sorrowfully. “Your perfect proportions are no longer so perfect.”

“It is hardly a thing to mourn,” Sebastian interjected, after ushering Ciel behind a folding screen he’d set up earlier. “The young master has always had trouble putting on weight and keeping it. Perfect proportions mean little compared to one’s health, wouldn’t you agree?”

Nina glared over at him. “Mr. Stiff in his natural habitat,” she sniffed, and turned back to her paper, shooing him off with a hand. “Now go help the Earl into his Easter clothes and let me at my task. I prefer to keep my work space clear of second opinions, thank you very much.”

The vest fit just fine, perhaps stretched a slight bit across the torso but not noticeably, and the original length for the trousers was too short in the ankle, as expected. Nina’s eye caught all these details and let out the fabric here and there, clamping pins between her lips and removing them to tuck into the butter-yellow folds. A white morning coat and top hat bedecked with a mint ribbon finished the crux of the ensemble. Nina instructed Sebastian to dye a carnation to the ribbon’s exact shade of green to serve as boutonnière come Sunday. “I trust you’ll manage it,” she said, “seeing as you have no passion for anything but servitude.”

Sebastian smiled dryly. “You know me quite little, if you believe that to be so.”

“I prefer believing it’s so than to know any of your true motivations,” Nina responded.

In that, the woman was admittedly wise.

Before the trip, Nina promised, the fitted Easter attire and three Sinclair shirts would arrive by post, with the rounded club collar that suited the young master’s neck so well, and two white dress shirts with high stand collars. Did the young master need a bellamy shirt? Maybe without too much lace in the ruffles, just one would be fine. Dress trousers in black, gray, charcoal, and navy would do. The Earl’s vests still fit, but certainly he’d need new ones before September. No, she didn’t know how to properly measure feet for shoes, but from heel to toe his foot was 24.6 centimeters, if that helped any. Finally, Nina reminded Ciel to think about which events of the social season he would want an outfit specially-tailored.

“With any luck,” Ciel sighed, “I’ll only be attending the Ascot – but I’m sure Lizzie will insist we go to Wimbledon and the Henley Regatta, too. I’ll just have to hope the queen comes up with something for me to do before then.”

“Let me know as soon as possible what your plans are,” Nina said with a wink. “I’ll be visiting you again at the end of the month. That will give me ample time to come up with some more creative ideas. Ciao, Earl!”

Sebastian led the way to the servant’s entrance again to see her off. They walked in icy silence, until Nina said, “You don’t need to follow me out. I know the way now.”

“Don’t argue it. It is merely my duty,” Sebastian snipped. “Even when it displeases me, I can recognize as much.”

Nina kept pace at his shoulder. “I’m not an idiot, Mr. Stiff, much as you might love to think so. I am a woman with pride in her work, and you of all people won’t discourage me. You might think you know more of duty than I – perhaps you do – but I’ll be damned if I ever show you deference. I am not your daughter, your wife, your sister, or your employee, and I am loath to believe you’d treat me this way if I were a man.”

“Miss Hopkins, your sex will never be the issue with me,” Sebastian said simply as they returned to the kitchen and staff entrance. “You are far too forward in all that you say – that is the trouble. Though, in your defense, I was pleased to see that you kept your wardrobe appropriate this time.”

Nina’s eyes flashed daringly. “You really do think I’m an idiot, don’t you? I’ve been in this business longer than the Earl has been alive. It doesn’t matter how maturely he behaves – I’ve learned a thing or two about taking measurements from boys his age, and I don’t need anything changing those measurements while I’m in the middle of taking them. Modesty may be a social construct, but arousal certainly isn’t.”

Sebastian lowered his eyebrows. Her thought process wasn’t wrong, but he still took the opportunity to berate her. “You are exceedingly crude, Miss Hopkins.”

“I am exceedingly _honest_ ,” Nina corrected, as if she could read Sebastian’s prior thoughts. “You never were a child, were you? You were an adult the day you were born. The aristocracy must love you – you have no spite for them, you just accept all as it is. Well then, enjoy your life in the proverbial caste system. I’ll be fighting the good fight elsewhere. Adieu, Mr. Stiff.”

She left Sebastian in the kitchen, he equal parts amused and perplexed. All at once, she had so perfectly understood him, yet completely missed the mark. Nina Hopkins… no matter his opinion, one thing was true: she could not be underestimated.

Sebastian returned to the drawing room with another pot of chai tea and Welsh rarebit half an hour later to find Ciel fast asleep in the armchair. He woke the boy with his voice. “Young master, you’ll find sleeping tonight very difficult if you nap during the day. I know it isn’t easy, but it will pay off if you can keep yourself awake.”

Ciel’s uncovered eye cracked to an angry slit. “Leave me alone,” he mumbled, swatting half-heartedly. “I told you I barely slept last night, so let me do what I want. I’m bloody exhausted.”

Sebastian opened his mouth to argue, then stopped himself short. Indeed, the boy was much grumpier when he was tired, but now that might prove more of a help than a hindrance. It meant Sebastian wouldn’t have to try as hard to make Ciel annoyed, meaning Ciel would want to spend less time around him. So Sebastian left the tea nearby and the boy to his rest.

Tuesday and Wednesday evenings were more of the same: a futile attempt to sleep at night that had to be resolved during the day, thus leading to further insomnia. Over those two days, Sebastian had argued with Ciel over a hundred small things and rarely spoke in calm tones. The boy complained of headaches and exhaustion, and seemed to walk everywhere in the haze of one who is recovering from illness. When Thursday morning arrived, Ciel’s sleep schedule was an unequivocal wreck. He’d yawned more than he’d spoken as Sebastian pulled him into his travel clothes at six o’clock that morning. And now Ciel clutched desperately at whatever three hours of sleep could grant him before facing the very opposite forces that were Elizabeth and Francis Midford.

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Sebastian had only visited the Phantomhive’s Oxford home once, a brick two-story building in the Gothic revival style, quaintly titled Peverel’s Honor and located in the Iffley suburbs. It had been in the Phantomhive family for two generations, initially purchased when Ciel’s grandfather attended Weston. The deed was technically still under the Phantomhive name and was therefore Ciel’s property by birthright, but the Midfords used it a few times a year to visit Edward, and Ciel tended to refer to the house as theirs. The last time Ciel was in Oxford two and a half years ago, it had been to celebrate Edward’s first semester as an upperclassman.

“It’s a shame we’re never going to be in school together,” Edward had said slyly, when the boys were alone in the sitting room one evening. “It’s perfectly acceptable to boss around the younger boys at Weston. Family or not.”

“Is that so?” Ciel had responded in a matching tone. “So what you’re saying is that you’ve been at least one prefect’s doormat?”

“What? I-I’m not talking about _me!_ It’s just common is all!”

Ciel smiled like a fox. “I’d love to disrupt such a hierarchy. I would pay an older boy to take down anyone who tried to make me his vassal.”

Edward had gazed at him hard, as if seeing the Queen’s guard dog side of his cousin for the first time. “It’s not as though they’re bullies about it. There’s a kind of camaraderie to the whole thing, really,” he’d mumbled, and quickly changed the subject to Funtomhive’s latest collection of glass marbles that he knew Ciel could get him for free.

In the present, the carriage stopped at the white front door with its shining custom knocker of a lion’s head. Ciel pushed back the curtain a bit. “I can see Lizzie coming downstairs through the big window.” Sebastian did recall that running just inside the front wall of the house was a diagonal stairwell that would put Elizabeth directly at the front door, and the marvelous two-story windowpane that made this view possible. By the time Sebastian had exited the carriage and opened the door for Ciel to step out, here the girl came, and not in a whirlwind of bows and lace but a champagne-colored tea gown with tight floral embroidery on the bodice. Her arms swallowed up her fiancé before he could give her a proper hello.

“You’re here!” Elizabeth cheered. Even if her clothing was uncharacteristically reserved, her enthusiasm was not. She pressed her face against Ciel’s, knocking off his top hat, which Sebastian dutifully caught. “I was so happy when you told us you could come! I thought for sure you would say no… and I didn’t want to get my hopes up until I saw you! But you’re here! Oh, it’s going to be such fun! And we have so many great things to do! Tonight we’re going to a party, and there’s the cricket match tomorrow, and then it will be Easter, and after that–”

“A-A party?” Ciel choked. He pushed the girl away gently. “Lizzie, don’t bounce around with me, you’re making my head spin… What’s this about a party?”

Lizzie took one of his gloved hands in both of hers. “I’ll tell you all about it – but the most important thing is that there’s going to be a huge garden and something beautiful made of ice. Anyway, come in, come in! You’ve had half a day of travel, so you must be tired. You’ll want to rest up before we go, won’t you? Are you hungry, by the way? Hammond went to our favorite bakery in Oxford and brought back all sorts of local sweets for us to have at teatime. I do so love Sebastian’s éclairs, but Pâtisserie Tropez does the most wonderful decorations with chopped pistachios!”

Ciel was then whisked indoors, leaving Sebastian to tip the coach driver and gather up the young master’s belongings. At the entrance, he immediately caught Lizzie chirruping further from upstairs.

“Mother, Mother, Ciel’s just arrived! Let’s have tea now so I can show him the éclairs! Also, we must tell him about the party tonight! It’s held twice a year for the families who donate the most to the school, so it’s a very nice event. Weston’s treasurer, Mr. Goode, holds the party at his manor, and you should see his topiary maze! Last year I made it to the middle and there was a glorious fountain with nymphs and dolphins made out of stone, but then I got lost on the way out, and Mr. Goode had to send in his servants to find me–”

“Elizabeth, please, I’ve told you that you must quit that habit of rambling when you’re excited.” The marchioness entered the second-floor sitting room just as Sebastian crested the stairs. Her graying hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and the corners of her mouth turned up just a bit at the sight of her nephew. “Well, well, good to see you’ve arrived in one piece, Ciel. I hope Lizzie hasn’t filled your ears with so much chatter that you’ll want a rest from conversation already.” Aunt Francis raised an eyebrow, and Lizzie laughed sheepishly, brightly. “Let’s have a seat, and why don’t you tell–”

“Ah, there he is–!”

The second interruption was caused by Ciel’s uncle Alexis. He hustled into the room next, brushing past his wife and seizing Ciel from his daughter in that same signature embrace. “Welcome, my boy, welcome! We are so delighted you could join us in Oxford! It’s been quite a while since you were last here, hasn’t it? Aren’t we in luck that you could make it for Easter!”

“Um, it’s good to see you too, Uncle,” Ciel coughed out from beneath the sturdy arms of the British Empire’s head knight. Once released, he seemed dazed. “I’m… I’m glad I could make it too. It’s… good to be here.”

“What a whirlwind you both are,” Francis Midford sighed at her family. “Let him sit and talk with us. Where is Hammond, or Broglie? Alexis, go ring for them, have one of them prepare us some tea.”

“Allow me to take care of that,” Sebastian cut in then, “as soon as I’ve delivered the young master’s luggage to his room, of course.”

The butler’s welcome was never as warm as his lord’s, naturally, but Elizabeth did not keep her pleasantries in short supply. “Oh, Sebastian, how could I forget about you? Welcome back to Peverel’s Honor! You were only here once before, right? Ciel will be staying in the same guest room as last time. It’s just down that hallway to the right, do you remember which door?”

Sebastian bowed his head, hefting up the three suitcases. “Armed with your kind instruction, Miss Elizabeth, I recall exactly where. Do pardon my intrusion on your conversation. I’ll return promptly with the tea and éclairs.”

The king-size bed was dressed in winter sheets, which was fine since the air still held a chill on misty mornings. Sebastian laid out tonight’s outfit and located a smoothing iron and board in the armoire. Then he went to where he remembered the kitchen and servants’ quarters were downstairs, passing through the sitting room again on his way. Ciel was sitting on a Rococo loveseat next to Elizabeth, who was hugging his arm, while his uncle and aunt sat across, Alexis beaming and Francis reserved. Then she leaned over the coffee table that separated her from the children to touch at Ciel’s hair, making some comment about its length or style, scolding him lightly. Ciel leaned away initially but then let her tuck a stray bang behind his ear, rebuked her opinions softly as she attempted to smooth it all down with her hands. It flopped back into place as soon as she let the strands go. Alexis and Lizzie laughed, and Francis pulled away, shaking her head.

 _Yes_ , thought Sebastian, _surely this is where he belongs._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> floor plan for Peverel's Honor
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	7. The Rose

“Young master, after all the Queen’s errands you’ve been on, it would be a real tragedy for you to drown in the tub.”

Ciel’s eyes snapped open and he looked around the guest bathroom. The water splashed with his twisting waist. “What–? I'm in the bath, I'm not... I'm... Oh.” He rubbed at his face with wet hands and sank lower into the warm suds. “Ugh… damn it, not again. Why is it that when I finally try to repair my sleep habits, they’re more horrid than ever before?”

Sebastian almost dumped a pitcher of water over the boy’s soapy head but stopped himself in time as Ciel, again, yawned enormously. “I believe your aunt said you would not be staying at the party for longer than two hours,” he reasoned. “If you manage to remain awake throughout, you’ll fall asleep at a normal hour tonight and then perhaps everything will shift into place.”

“That’s a lovely thought,” Ciel grumbled. “Of course, it’s never that easy for me.”

“My, it sounds like a child’s cautionary tale, doesn’t it? _The Little Lord Who Couldn’t Stay Awake During the Party_ ,” Sebastian smirked, and Ciel clambered out of the bath, not without a few snarled retorts in his butler’s direction.

Peverel’s Honor had been through a number of refurbishments across the generations, but for the second story floors only so much could be done. Therefore the old wooden planks of Ciel’s grandfather’s era were still intact in the bathroom and were more of a hassle to take care of than tile or brick. Once Ciel was dressed for the occasion, Sebastian immediately went in search of extra towels to clean up any standing water that could cause the floorboards to rot. Lizzie’s maid Paula directed him to the storage closet down the opposite hallway, and he thanked her before making his way there.

“You don’t suppose Lady Dawes will be at the party tonight, do you, dear?”

The voice coming from the master bedroom belonged to Alexis Midford. Sebastian generally gave all external conversation his secondary attention, and so he did not become attentive to it until his charge’s name was spoken.

“Do I suppose? I don’t know. Why do you ask?” Francis returned. She was likely at her toilette, as there was the soft clatter of things being picked up and put down again.

“I’m just thinking of what she might say to Ciel.”

Sebastian paused before the closet.

Francis scoffed that. “What are the chances of him talking with her, do you think? Lady Dawes is an old widow and he’s just a boy, after all.”

“Well, I don’t think that he’d approach her, but she might seek him out, if she knows he’s there.”

“Hmm. Yes, she of all people would go so far, wouldn’t she?” Francis sighed out her nose. “I believe last year she had retired by eight o’clock. If we arrive at seven thirty, the chances of the two meeting are slim. And nobody else will care that we invited him.”

“… Have you ever asked Ciel why he doesn’t donate to Weston?” Alexis asked after a pause.

“No. I scarcely ask him about money anymore. I used to meet with his accountant in private when he first began managing his own funds, but he’s really very smart about his finances, so I trust him to do what he thinks is best… Don’t tell him I said that.”

Alexis was surprised. “Why ever not?”

“Because,” Francis continued matter-of-factly, “he shouldn’t relax when it comes to me. Someday he’ll have to take care of Elizabeth too. I don’t ever want him to think I’ll ‘settle’ for how he manages his wages or his business or… anything, really. I have minimum expectations, but not maximum, and he can always be striving for more.”

“He _is_ only fourteen,” Alexis reminded.

“ _He_ is a Phantomhive,” Francis reminded back.

There was the subtle movement of shoes on carpet, and then, “You have the strongest will in all of Europe, darling. I fell in love the day you beat me in the Queen’s tournament, and you’ve been parrying me ever since. I never can decide if you’re more beautiful when you finally let your guard down or when you keep fighting with everything you have.”

“Oh, stop it,” Francis chided, but warmly, and there was a whisper of sound as the couple briefly kissed. Sebastian opened the closet and chose three towels that seemed the most worn-out before traveling back to the guest bath.

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The number of stray cats wandering the alleys of Oxford were too numerous to count – this Sebastian knew. But he had learned his lesson from the Shrove Tuesday party and tonight he would not gather any of them in his arms for entertainment. Instead he would train his focus on Ciel as best he could, because he refused to spend months wondering about some new attitude again. Considering the Midford’s discussion of this Lady Dawes character and Ciel’s short fuse from a lack of sleep, conflict seemed a high possibility.

They took the Midford's five-glass landau to the party. Sebastian did not drive but rode in the boot – the Midford’s Broglie was the senior butler while he and Ciel were here, and there was only one space remaining in the front. The journey was not long but took them to the city proper, along the Thames by the Weston recreation grounds and the Christ Church Meadow. Weston’s treasurer, of course, would live on a piece of prime real estate near the school, in a manor half the size of Ciel’s but quite large considering the territory. Little lanterns guided the way up the drive and the house itself was a bull’s-eye of light and sound in the dark. The air was balmy tonight, and party-goers were made giddy by the breath of spring. It was England, the next rain shower was only a thought away – they’d enjoy the good weather each moment it lasted.

A short queue of fellow carriages deposited noble ladies and gentlemen at the manor’s entrance. When their own carriage made it to the front, Sebastian descended the boot and put down the long step to let the passengers out. Lizzie emerged first, wearing a sky blue silk gown with white lace and pink accoutrements, and Ciel followed after his aunt in an old favorite blue coat and trousers that _just_ fit by Sebastian’s standards. Lizzie had been upset that she and her fiancé didn’t match, but there hadn’t been enough time to plan coordinating outfits tonight. “At least we’ll have Easter to look alike,” she’d lamented; Ciel lamented too, but for the very opposite reason.

The family went into the yellow glow of the doorway, and Sebastian climbed back aboard as Hammond flicked the reins to find a place to park the horses. The coach was stationed about five minutes away down an unpaved dirt road, amongst other nobles’ vehicles. Broglie went to sleep in the compartment, and Hammond lit a cigarette and went to chat with footmen from other houses who’d parked nearby; there was nothing for the servants to do but wait when the rich clicked glasses. Sebastian had no trouble slipping away unnoticed in the direction of the house. The darkness was a swift disguise. Within it, even humans became panthers. It turned demons into water and air.

In this darkness, Sebastian could observe the party through the windows. The inside world was gold and platinum. A hundred humans in a single room glittered with white wine and white jewels. Men were as different as sparrows and finches in their suits, while each woman was as unique as a shell. The whole room was awash in starry flames that reflected off every facet of every chandelier, every polished piece of furniture, every tooth when the people tipped back their heads in laughter, lost in their fabricated heaven.

Sebastian marveled the scene but was not dazzled. He did not lose sight of his mission. When focused, his sharp ears could make out individual discussions, and as a hound roots through a cacophony of scents to find the rabbit’s, Sebastian sifted through the voices until Ciel’s was the only one he heard. He followed that voice all around its sweep of the room, the voice of a prideful boy trying his best to sound interested and interesting when all he wanted to do was sleep and be left well alone. Sebastian fancied only he could decipher all the undertones of that voice.

An hour passed. Ciel faced a few small trials in that span: an intoxicated man gestured with his wine glass and splashed the boy’s shoulder; a runaway lapdog had nibbled at his shoe and untied one of his laces; he wasn’t in time to get a slice of cherry Madeira cake before it was all eaten. The fullness of the room began to overwhelm him too, and Ciel allowed himself a break by the far wall, where some of the spring air came in from the open doors leading to the gardens.

“Excuse me. Excuse me, boy, who are you? Yes, you. Tell me your name.”

There were few English words that Sebastian held disdain for. ‘Crotchety’ was one of them, and that was precisely how Sebastian felt this old woman’s tone should be described. He could not see her or the boy from his position, but he could imagine the scene, her leaning in too close and Ciel’s contained annoyance at being so addressed.

Ciel introduced himself with polite confusion and quite a bit of hesitation. He had been groomed to handle even the most awkward social interactions, though this one did come with strange circumstances: no one had introduced the two properly, he was not entirely sure how to speak to her until he knew her status, and it was likely she could only get away with being so forward because she was old or high-titled. “And who do I have the pleasure of knowing this evening...?” he asked slowly.

“I,” she said, putting on airs, “am Lady Opal Dawes, great aunt of your kind host, Mr. Theodore Goode.”

Ah, did it even take a demon’s intuition to know the forewarned meeting would occur after all? And it was past eight o’clock too.

“You would know this,” Lady Dawes continued, “if you had come to one of my nephew’s parties before, and you would have come to one of my nephew’s parties before if you were a benefactor. But I know everybody who donates to the school, and I know you have not – I don’t recognize you, and I would have seen your name before. What are you doing here?”

Ciel seemed floored by this accusation, and rightfully so. “I’m… I’m here with my family, the Midfords.”

“Yes, I know,” Lady Dawes said quickly, as if this conversation she herself began was a waste of time. “I know Marchioness Midford was a Phantomhive before she married the marquis; I daresay I know your family better than you do, seeing as they used to come to these parties before you were even born. Your grandfather and your father, Weston was their alma mater, and they donated graciously each year to the school's upkeep. But we both know why those contributions stopped. What I don’t know is why you didn’t take up their mantle after they passed. Which wouldn’t be my business,” Lady Dawes pressed, “if you hadn’t decided you were invited here tonight after refusing to show the devotion to education that your forefathers did.”

Ciel was stunned into silence. Sebastian could tell by the sway of voices around the two that guests nearby had begun to notice the altercation. No one yet came to Ciel’s aid, so the boy was forced to speak for himself. “I came because I was invited by my aunt,” he finally stuttered out. His words began to grow hot. “If I’d known I wouldn’t be welcome here, I certainly wouldn’t have come.”

“You could have assumed it,” the old woman said. “You are young, but I hear a great deal about you and your exploits, you aren’t stupid – leading me to believe you withheld donations with a purpose in mind.”

“I promise you, I had no such designs,” Ciel said thickly, “and the ramblings of an angry old woman certainly aren’t about to change my opinion on the subject!”

Lady Dawes gasped. “Well, I never–”

“Great Aunt Opal.” A middle-aged woman’s voice cut through the exchange. She was likely the sister or wife of Theodore Goode. Sebastian could tell she would be too submissive to end the widow’s tirade. “It’s getting late, dear, how about we get you to bed? I believe all the company has made you excited.”

Lady Dawes ignored her niece or daughter-in-law. “What a good man I thought Vincent Phantomhive was,” she rattled on, “but if this is how his son behaves, then I see his goodness only went so far. I can only imagine what he would say if he were here right now!”

“Aunt Opal, that’s enough of that...”

“Yes, you can ‘only imagine,’” Ciel said shakily, “because I don’t believe you really know anything about who my father was.”

“Do _you?_ ” Lady Dawes marveled. “How old were you when he passed again? Eight years? Nine? I probably remember him as well as you do. As far as I’m concerned, you’re too young to understand–”

“Shut _up!_ ”

For the briefest moment, the chatter beyond the bright window dithered into whispers. Even Sebastian felt something in him go still. He could not see Ciel’s face in the crowd, merely a triangle of blue coat within a halo of gold ambience – then Aunt Francis called sharply above the din, “ _Ciel!_ ” and the blue went dashing off into the gardens outside.

Well, well, how the drama had unfolded. The Shrove Tuesday party was a mere sideshow attraction in comparison to this.

Sebastian moved silently from the shadows of the window to the shadows of the garden to see Ciel escaping into the infamous topiary maze. Francis Midford was behind him in twenty seconds, still calling his name. In polite society, she was a woman of stature before she was a mother, but this was an unusual occasion and her emotions too pushed her to act. Because of her skirts she could not keep up, however, and the boy’s head start gave him an advantage.

Sebastian found his charge in an instant but did not reveal himself. He stayed a wall of hedges away from the boy and watched through the leaves as Ciel paced the corridors, looking over his shoulder every few yards to make sure no one was behind him before continuing. Ciel walked quickly, his hands balled into fists by his sides. A natural at puzzles, it wasn’t long before he found the stone fountain Lizzie told him about, marble benches surrounding the structure. Ciel sat on one. He stayed like that for a minute, clenching his fists tightly, until they suddenly loosened and he pulled his legs to his chest, pressing his face into them.

“Oh, dear… Now what could this be about?”

At once Ciel jumped to his feet, rubbing his face hastily on his forearm. Sebastian was similarly surprised; he hadn’t noticed anybody else’s presence either, so fixated had he been on the boy. “Wh-Who is it?” Ciel said quickly. He swallowed, and the Adam’s apple that was growing more pronounced by the day bobbed the slightest bit. “I’m, um, who else is here?” Ciel’s stance said he was prepared to leave again, not yet ready for any confrontation about what had just happened indoors.

A tall, broad-shouldered man walked around from his seat at the opposite end of the fountain. A full head of dark brown hair spilled from under a sleek black top hat, though his face said he must be in his early forties at least. A plump cravat was clamped beneath his paisley Bonaventure vest, over which he wore a herringbone frock coat. He stopped when he was about three yards from the new arrival. Then he smiled politely.

“Beg your pardon, young man,” the stranger said with a dip of his head, “do you mind if I ask what seems to be the trouble? You appear distressed.”

Ciel took a step back slowly. “No… No, excuse me, I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t bothering anyone who might be enjoying the fountain…”

“Sit. Please,” the man offered, gesturing at the bench Ciel had just left. Ciel hesitated. “I don’t bite,” he laughed, “nor do I bark. And I’ve been told I’m quite good at keeping secrets. Now, tell me, why should a young person your age look so distraught?”

Sebastian smirked. Ciel had trouble confiding in anyone, and he certainly wasn’t going to suddenly improve with a stranger. The boy opened his mouth to respond but it was Aunt Francis who stole the silence. “Ciel Phantomhive, there you are!” She appeared from the opposite entrance to the fountain area, holding her skirts with both hands. “Don’t you dare run off again, you stay right there… Ciel! How could you speak to Lady Dawes like that? I am so appalled and ashamed, I am beside myself with anger! What do you have to say for yourself?”

Ciel was glaring at the ground. He was quiet.

Francis put her hands on her hips. “What do you have to say for yourself?” she repeated. “A woman her age… What could she possibly have done to make you that upset?!”

Before the boy could answer, the gentleman gave a short laugh. “Are we thinking of the same Lady Dawes?” he said jovially. “I don’t know what the lad has said, but if anyone can pry discouraging words from a mouth, it’s her.”

Francis seemed to see the stranger for the first time. “Pardon me, but this is between my nephew and I,” she said. “He told a respectable woman and the host’s great aunt to ‘shut up,’ if you must know. Whatever she said to him, it was probably hard to hear; I’m familiar with her commentary, and I know she doesn’t mince words. Despite that,” she aimed her attention at Ciel, “that does not give you permission to speak to her the way you did. You must go apologize to her right now.”

Ciel’s head whipped up at that. “Apologize to _her?_ ” His words were full of offense.

“You heard me,” Francis snapped. “At this point it’s the only salve we have. I refuse to let you leave this party without giving your most sincere regrets to Lady Dawes and Mr. Goode – don’t look at me that way, Ciel, you know it’s what must be done! Now, don’t stand there anymore, we have to make our way out of this blasted maze you made me chase you into, and you must prepare a very heartfelt speech while we walk…”

“Wait.” Francis and Ciel turned to the stranger, who held his top hat in his hands. “I think I have somewhat of an understanding of what happened,” he said. “I want to help, if I can. Mr. Goode and I have been friends for some time. I know all about Lady Dawes.” He smiled, somewhat sneakily. “She’s a tough old bird, and she’s worried of becoming irrelevant, so she causes a scene when she can.”

Francis looked at the gentleman narrowly. “You speak boldly yourself.”

“Boldly, perhaps. But also honestly,” the man said. He turned to Ciel. “You’re Earl Phantomhive,” he went on. “You’re a clever young man – anyone acquainted with your work can attest to that. I want to believe that whatever Lady Dawes said to you tonight, your anger was, in part, justified. Even if your words were strong,” he added when Francis shot him another look.

Ciel glanced between the adults in a sort of peculiar wonderment. He was facing the gentleman when he finally responded. “She… that is Lady Dawes, she asked me why I was at the party since I’m not a benefactor to Weston. And when I said that my family invited me to join them, she seemed to think I wasn’t donating any money because I was against the school or something of that nature… and then she started speaking poorly of my late father, and I…” Ciel suddenly seemed to feel embarrassed by his own explanation. “It isn’t like me to lose control like that. But I’ve been a little under the weather this week. I don’t know what came over me.”

“What came over you?” The stranger looked taken aback. “What boy wouldn’t be upset at someone criticizing his father? Excuse me – what _young man_ wouldn’t be upset, I meant to say… but regardless, hearing this, I now feel I completely understand your actions.”

“I don’t want to justify this,” Francis clarified. Then she sighed. “Ciel… the way you spoke to Lady Dawes wasn’t acceptable, and you still must apologize to her. But I feel… a bit relieved and a bit angry to hear how she spoke to you, too. The truth is, I was afraid she might seek you out tonight and give you a piece of her mind. Perhaps I should have taken more precautions to make sure this didn’t happen in the first place.”

Ciel's shoulders drooped and he propped up his bangs with the back of his hand. “What’s done is done, unfortunately… It doesn’t matter why I said what I did. People are going to talk, and the only part that anyone will care about is that I was very rude to a woman five times my age.”

“Not I,” the gentleman chipped in. “Make your apology gracious and allow me to do the rest… If anyone can be sure the Phantomhive name is a good one, it’s Henri Fairclough.”

That’s when Ciel backpedaled, and even Sebastian’s own lips turned in a fractal of a smile. “You’re–?!” Ciel sputtered, eyes widening. “You’re Henri Fairclough,” he exclaimed, and gave a short laugh. “So this isn’t the first time you have my gratitude – but now you’re more than a signature on a cheque. What an honor it is to meet you in-person, Mr. Fairclough. I only wish I had presented myself less…” Ciel grimaced. “Less… in the way that I presented myself tonight.”

Fairclough laughed boomingly. “I couldn’t resist keeping my identity a secret any longer! And it’s a pleasure to meet you in-person too, Earl. I had no idea that…” He tapered off and restarted. “I had no idea you would be at this party tonight.”

“You live in Clermont-Ferrand most of the year, don’t you? I assumed we would never cross paths,” Ciel admitted.

Fairclough looked impressed. “Well! Your French accent is quite good!”

Ciel tucked his hands behind his back. “ _Plus que simplement mon accent est bon._ ”

Now Fairclough looked thrilled. Aunt Francis refused to stay in the dark any longer. “Mr. Fairclough, what is your relation to my nephew?” she demanded.

“Mr. Fairclough has been the highest bidder at almost all of my display auctions,” Ciel explained in the man’s stead. “The toys featured in the store display windows are sold at the end of each season, and the money is donated to orphanages and workhouses across England. For the displays, toys are often specially made, and are larger or of a better quality than the ones that are sold to the public, making them a collector’s item. Mr. Fairclough’s name has come to my attention a number of times. I am very grateful for his patronage.”

“And I am very grateful to have met you in person!” Fairclough said, shaking Ciel’s hand suddenly and with vigor. Ciel was startled by this but masked it quickly. “Marchioness Midford… your nephew has my utmost respect. You can be certain that I will keep tonight’s incident from traveling farther than Mr. Goode’s doorstep.”

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Mr. Goode and the woman who turned out to be his wife were actually quite reasonable about the whole event. They apologized before Ciel could: Mrs. Goode had overheard the entire conversation, and could not believe Lady Dawes had been so inappropriate with her claims. “We never want our guests to feel unwelcome, no matter who they are,” Mr. Goode promised.

“Thank you. Regardless, I shouldn’t have spoken that way.” Ciel’s apology, Sebastian could tell, was at least somewhat sincere, likely motivated by the Goodes’ civility. “I lost control of my temper, and I shouldn’t have. It isn’t right for a gentleman to speak to a lady so.”

Mr. Goode dismissed him with a hand raised. “Lady Dawes was nearly asking for it. You should have seen her after you ran off! She went upstairs unassisted for the first time in a year! Whatever you said to her, it gave her an energy boost. She was only pretending to be upset… At her age, the only joy she has left is in seeing she can still create her own gossip.”

Even with that graciousness, Aunt Francis was not going to let Ciel off the hook just yet. She rounded up her husband and Lizzie to leave at once, saying to Ciel in a harsh whisper as they approached the carriage, “We will talk about this further at home.” None of the Midfords were surprised at Sebastian's clairvoyance to have the landau prepared for their early departure. Ciel, however, glared at Sebastian in a way that said _I know the reason you're here on-time is because you overheard everything that happened, bastard._ Sebastian smiled sweetly back and closed the door behind his lord.

The talk on the way home was loud from the women and non-existent from the men. “You have _my_ support, Ciel,” Lizzie declared. “The way Lady Dawes talked to you was ever so rude! She deserved to taste some of her own medicine!”

“Elizabeth, I will not have you responding to rumors with such a strong opinion!” Francis barked back. “I know you didn’t overhear the conversation – and Ciel is your fiancé, not your husband, and I don’t give you permission to back him on every one of his decisions yet.”

“Mother, you should be angry too! Lady Dawes was speaking poorly of your own brother!”

“I have no need to respond with anger. It isn’t becoming to be riled up by the opinions of others, particularly when they are unfounded. Lady Dawes is your elder. She is an adult and in charge of her own reputation. You and Ciel are still young, and I will not condone speaking your mind whenever you please!”

“But we don’t speak our mind whenever we please! Ciel was just defending himself!”

“This isn’t a discussion, Elizabeth, this is a matter of etiquette, and it has undoubtedly been breached. Keeping cool during an argument is one of the least expectations I have of you children.”

“But Mother–!”

“No more, Elizabeth!”

The rest of the ride was held in silence.

Sebastian opened the compartment door once they arrived at Peverel’s. He helped the women out with his hand, and closed the door after the men followed. Ciel refused to look at his butler at he went inside. Alexis touched Francis on the arm and said, “Dear, before you speak with Ciel, a word?” The lights in the house came on as Broglie lit them, and Hammond and Sebastian road to the carriage house to put the horses away. When Sebastian came in through the servant's entrance, he sensed the souls of Alexis and his wife in their own bedroom, and considered it safe to approach Ciel in his.

Ciel knew Sebastian by his knock, and called gruffly, “Come in, damn demon.”

“Well,” Sebastian said, shutting the door behind him, “it seems tonight was rather eventful, wasn’t it, young master?”

“Don’t be coy,” Ciel spat from his bed, arms folded tightly across his chest, “you know all the details already, you don’t need me to lay them out for you. Ugh! That awful woman pissed me off!”

“Indeed,” Sebastian said. “I didn’t realize such an evaluation of your predecessor would cause you to lash out so.”

Ciel shot up from the pillows. “It’s not that at all! I _hate_ presumptuous people! She thought that because she met my father a few times that she _knew_ him! What a joke! And then Mr. Goode basically confirmed that she just wanted to make me mad! As if I’m not already exhausted enough from this wretched week, and now my aunt must think I’ve developed such a quick trigger finger that I’m no longer suitable to be taken out in public!”

Sebastian tutted. “And now you wait like a schoolboy for the cane.”

“Be quiet,” Ciel snapped. “This is ridiculous too. I don’t need an adult to tell me how or how not to behave. I already know I made a fool of myself.” He crossed his arms again, leaning back down to the pillows. Then he looked at Sebastian sidelong, carefully. “I know what I said was rash, but… Well, what do you think? Lady Dawes was being rude too, wasn’t she? I mean, I could have come up with something much more formal, but… But you don’t think I was unjustified in saying what I did, do you?”

Ciel’s expression had changed during those last couple of sentences. There was a sort of pleading in his eye that Sebastian recognized from when his charges realized their contract was coming to a close. But Ciel wasn’t asking for his life – he was asking for support.

The truth of the matter was, Sebastian did not really have a strong opinion. No, of course he didn’t think his master should have spoken that way to a lady – but at the same time, what Ciel had said paled in comparison to Lady Dawes’ slights. She was not a senile old woman who’d forgotten how to hold her tongue; she had purposefully whetted her words like iron daggers in hopes of drawing blood. Most men would have had trouble staying level-headed, and undoubtedly most boys. Not to mention, Ciel was an aristocrat himself. It was within his rights to defend his bloodline.

But this was also Sebastian’s chance to dissuade Ciel's faith in his guidance. And he promised himself he would push the boy away.

“I believe,” Sebastian said, “that your aunt has a point of her own, young master.”

Ciel wrinkled up his nose, betrayed. The pleading in his blue eye turned to scorn. He looked like he was about to curse at Sebastian when another knock came to the door. Ciel turned his unspoken words into a glare. “Come in,” he called, with contained emotion.

“Hello, nephew.” Instead of Francis, Uncle Alexis entered the room, then blinked when he saw the butler. “Oh, Sebastian! I hope you weren’t busy working in here, but I’d appreciate it if you came back later. I would like to speak to my nephew in private.”

“... Certainly, sir.” Sebastian turned away from the cold fire in his master’s gaze and left the family to themselves, shutting the door gently behind him.

Going against Ciel had been the right thing to do. He believed this, and yet Sebastian felt the regret rising in his chest for just a hair of a second and feared it. First sympathy and now fear. Sebastian closed his eyes and sighed. If he was reciprocating his charge's feelings, it only could mean that their connection was all the stronger, that he was cultivating a tastier soul than ever before. Or it could mean the opposite, or anything in between. No one had mentored Sebastian in demonhood. His life was one of trial and error, utter guesswork, and until this very instant in time, that had been enough.

 _Perhaps,_ thought Sebastian, _I too need a holiday._

Of course a full-fledged leave of absence was nothing he had interest in, but a thirty-minute respite would do. Which was how he came to be stationed in a tree outside Ciel’s bedroom with a calico mistress cradled in his arms as a mother with her infant.

An esteemed butler should feel a bit disgraceful about all the eavesdropping he now participated in. Sebastian quashed this by telling himself he had to hear how Alexis spoke with Ciel. If Alexis addressed the boy’s needs, Sebastian could rely on him to teach Ciel about the business of growing up. And if not… the hunt for a suitable teacher continued.

Sebastian tuned his ears to the discussion after its start. Alexis was saying, “Your aunt told me what she overheard, but I’m sure you have a different perspective. Would you mind explaining to me what Lady Dawes said to you?”

Ciel sighed. “I’m sorry, Uncle Alexis, but I really don’t want to talk about it anymore tonight. I’m very tired, and I honestly feel ashamed about the whole thing. It isn’t like me to act that way. I’m sorry that I did.”

“To act… what way?” Alexis pressed.

Ciel huffed. “Without heed.”

“Heed of what?”

“Heed of–? Of how the other person feels, of course! What else would I mean?” Ciel burst. Then he groaned in self-contempt. “Just listen to me… I’m still out of sorts. I’m sorry, Uncle. The truth is, I’ve had an awful time sleeping this week, and it’s made me very temperamental. I was spouting off at my servants every day before I came to Oxford. Now I’ve been rude to a stranger, and to you. I don’t like acting this way. It would be better if you left me to sleep, before I get any worse.”

Alexis was contemplative. He had pulled the desk chair over to the bedside when he entered the bedroom and he shifted his weight on the cushion. “Ciel… I think it was good that you talked back to Lady Dawes tonight.”

Ciel swung forward on the edge of the mattress. “What…?!”

“Because,” Alexis explained, “if you hadn’t, you would have hid your anger from us, and then I wouldn’t have the chance to ask what you really thought about what she said to you.”

Sebastian felt the cat bite his hand, unsatisfied with the way he stroked her belly.

“It helps to know what she said at all,” Alexis prompted.

Ciel cleared his throat. “What she said does not excuse my behavior.”

“Perhaps; perhaps not. I'd still like to hear her words and why they upset you.” A pause. “I know, at the very least, that she insulted your father, Ciel.”

“… Yes, she did insult my father,” Ciel sighed, “but it only upset me because I was tired and easily angered. If I weren’t tired, I don’t think it would have hardly mattered so much to me. Which is why I really need to rest, Uncle. May we please discuss this at a later time?”

“We’ll have to get ready for the cricket match in a hurry tomorrow morning, which is why I wanted to talk now.” Alexis stood up. “I wanted to let you know that you haven't embarrassed me. I’ve never seen you behave that way before. I felt as though your aunt was too quick to scold. It doesn’t do any good to avoid the root of the problem.” Ciel gave a yawn, likely trying to speed things along, and Alexis finally relented. “I mainly wanted to give you the assurance that the air will clear. You rest, and I’ll assuage Francis. Tomorrow we’ll all enjoy the cricket tournament as it’s meant to be enjoyed.”

“Um, yes. Thank you,” Ciel said hastily. “I'm looking forward to it, too.”

“We’ll be leaving the house tomorrow at eleven. Sebastian has already been told. Do get some rest now, nephew. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Uncle Alexis. And, um…” Then Ciel put on a grateful voice that Sebastian knew was strictly for lying with. “Thank you, again, for worrying about me. I urge you to think no more of it. I’m sure I’ll feel myself again after a full night’s sleep.”

Alexis stood in the doorway. “I hope you do. But we’ll talk about this more later. See you in the morning, then.”

“Ah, yes…” Ciel couldn’t hide his perturbation at being unable to shake his uncle off. The door shut and he flopped back against the bed, began undoing the buttons of his vest. “Sebastian.”

The cat was placed gently on the lawn. She swiftly mixed into the ink of darkness.

“Don’t come to me. I can get ready for bed on my own.”

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Where do the cats go at night? Sebastian could not sense any more paws on the grass, save those of the calico that had longed to desert him. Rats in the city, mice in the country, but naught in the suburbs but a demon. The light in his lord’s room went out. The silhouettes of Alexis and Francis sat close together. The stars shone ravenously above. So like demons, they were: beautiful, sparkling wish-fulfillers that, on closer suspect, were made of hellfire. Humans drew stars with five points, like hands. The sky was full of those tiny hands, reaching from millions of miles away, reaching out for humanity, the only thing that believed in them. Such faith humans put in celestial bodies. They did not realize gods needed humans just as much, if not more, than humans needed gods. Oh, the brilliance of mortality; oh, the inevitability of death. The question wasn’t when death would strike, rather which hand would reach down from the skies to take take the soul when it was ripe.

But even the gods, they cannot say where it is the cats go at night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, so if the name Henri Fairclough didn't seem familiar to you, do take a quick trip back to chapter one...
> 
> Thanks for reading! Reviews are always welcome!


	8. The Spring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Yana puts so much work into the outfits she designs, I like to paint a clear picture of what the characters and Ciel especially are wearing. However, I thought I'd provide some images for Francis and Lizzie's outfits this time because I already wrote a lot and because it's harder to picture women's clothing of the time. Men's formal wear is pretty similar to men's Victorian dress, while women's has changed quite a bit, after all.
> 
> Francis: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/cb/ec/95/cbec959b25df5fcb2d007231f1e00be1.jpg  
> Lizzie: https://www.historicalemporium.com/store/005310.php (but in solid green)

Ciel had not been entirely eager to talk with his uncle last night, but Sebastian deemed Alexis a worthy mentor anyway. How could he not have recognized it sooner? Though Francis was the definition of order and class, Alexis was a father figure, a graciously warm man who would be eager to sit one-on-one with Ciel and illustrate the truths of adulthood. At any rate, he seemed to embody all the qualities that Tanaka said would most benefit Ciel at this stage.

Sebastian would make certain to speak to the marquis about his newfound duty come sunrise. But before that, there was shopping to be done.

Peverel’s Honor was stocked with only non-perishables, and even that supply was meager. There was sugar, but none of it brown, olive oil, but not extra-virgin. Because the Midfords had not intended to stay this long either, the house was almost empty of food: only bread, eggs, and eight rashers of bacon remained for breakfast. This would all have to be remedied, and it could be done much more quickly on Sebastian’s own.

Before leaving for Oxford’s market, Sebastian lit a fire in the fireplace of the house’s hunting lodge-style main room. Ciel and the Midfords considered the antlers and redwood paneling a bit tacky, and only seemed to keep it that way for posterity’s sake – Ciel’s great-grandfather had been an avid hunter. The family spent very little time in that area, despite how large of a space it was. The reason for the fire was not so much to warm the room as it was to heat up the flat iron so that Sebastian could properly tend to Ciel’s clothes on his return. He balanced the iron above the flames on its proffered hanger, and then he was out the door.

Sebastian was at the early market when the sky had gone from amethyst to rich pink. He bought a pork shoulder that was just the same in color. Then he bought rump steak and chicken liver and ground sausage, and slid coins to the butcher until it was clear he wouldn’t leave without the lamb chops that most resembled jasper marble. He purchased the whitest milk and a brick of yellow butter and a mature pale cheese. Then there were jars of pickled pearl onions, full to bursting, and great, earthy potatoes, and baguettes that crackled at the merest touch. There were brown eggs and imported sherry and a bundle of thyme like a bouquet. The farmers at their stalls marveled at this butler, whose master had clearly instructed he buy nothing less than the finest goods. What was especially impressive was that the man carried all this food in a crate in his arms, as if it were no more than a box of orphaned kittens…

Back home in the kitchen, Broglie, Paula, and Hammond watched in equal awe as Sebastian turned this treasure trove of ingredients into pâté, scotch eggs, Cornish pasties, pork pies, hot cross buns, and quiches, all before eight o’clock. “Be certain that these keep cold and these keep warm,” Sebastian directed the Midford staff, “while I see to it that breakfast is made.”

Paula returned to Sebastian’s side while he fried yolk-drenched bread in a pan. “We cannot thank you enough for all of your help this morning,” she said, in a voice made both light and heavy with relief. “None of us have proper kitchen experience, and we were worried when we discovered the Midfords wanted to stay till Easter Sunday. We knew few restaurants would be open that day to accommodate them, and those that were would be full. We were completely uncertain about how to proceed with meal preparation during their extended stay. Your presence here is truly a godsend, Mr. Michaelis.”

Sebastian smiled in a way that could pass for appreciation, instead of the amusement that it was. “What I find most curious are the circumstances that have led the Midfords to remain in Oxford this long. Last night’s party and today’s cricket match – it surprises me that the marquis and marchioness were not properly informed of these events before they arrived.”

“That was the truly strange thing about it: nobody was,” Paula said. “The party for the benefactors and the cricket match – all of this was planned at the last minute, within ten days’ time.”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow, genuinely perplexed. “And despite that, quite a number of guests seemed to be visiting the Goode’s residence last night.”

“Mr. Goode’s parties _are_ very popular with the gentry,” Paula explained. “The first party of the year is usually held closer to the social season, you see, and I’m sure people took measures to be certain they could make it. It’s a fine opportunity for the benefactors to speak with other parents about sons and daughters, to hint at matrimony and compare wealth.” The maid hid her smile behind her hand. “It wouldn’t be any of my business, but Miss Elizabeth does like to play at matchmaking herself. She tells me much more than I ought to know.”

“But was there any explanation as to what caused the change in plans?” Sebastian pressed.

Paula thought for a second. “Yes… Supposedly it was to have the students’ families in-town for Easter. Then the boys could have their fun playing cricket and the parents could be sure they attended church on the Holy Day. It did all seem rather sudden. Weston has never done anything like this before.”

How peculiar. “I see.” With a small flick of his wrist, Sebastian was able to toss four strips of bacon so that they all flipped in the air and landed back inside their pan upside-down. Paula was immediately distracted by his performance and clapped.

“Amazing! How did you learn to do such a thing? Ah, but really, everything you’ve done this morning has been amazing… So much food and in such a short time! And you don’t even seem harried!”

Sebastian dipped his head modestly. “If I could not do this much, how could I call myself a Phantomhive butler?”

Paula laughed, as if that were a joke. “Surely that can’t be the standard! This amount of work is nearly inhuman.”

“Quite the observation,” Sebastian simpered. He transferred the bacon over to a tray, the French toast into a silver chafer. “A light breakfast should be acceptable today, considering the picnic lunch will begin before noon. Now, if you would, tell Hammond to bring this to the dining room in half an hour, so that the rest of us may tend to our masters and ladies, hm?”

“Of course, Mr. Michaelis! Right away!”

Sebastian smirked to himself as Paula hustled off. How amusing it was, that she found his food preparation the unbelievable aspect of his job. The true impossibility of his title had much more to do with the ‘Phantomhive’ part than the ‘butler.’

And he did have to wonder, as he brought the tea upstairs, what sort of Ciel he would see today. Perhaps one with as black a countenance as witnessed after the Shrove Tuesday party? Or with that fragile annoyance that came from being all too tired? Though he’d brought a sweet Munnar tea as a peace offering, Sebastian predicted something terrible might happen to it – he just hoped that that “terrible something” didn’t involve spoiling his gloves and the carpet beneath them.

He knocked on the door and awaited his fate.

“Come in.” It was a toneless voice. Sebastian abided it.

Ciel was sitting upright in bed, lower body snug beneath the covers, staring pensively at his butler. His hands were folded neatly in his lap, his eyes lidded in passive scrutiny. “Good morning, my lord,” Sebastian said. He placed the tea tray on a marble-topped parlor table and went back to close the door. “I’m pleased to see you awake on your own today. I hope you are feeling properly rested.” When he glanced to Ciel next, the boy’s hand was lazily pointing a pistol at the demon’s head.

“This had better not make any damn noise,” Ciel drawled, and pulled the trigger.

The gun clicked. Sebastian’s fist was clenched by his side. It wasn’t often that Ciel wanted him to use a demon’s trick to solve things, but sometimes it was required, as it usually was when bullets were involved.

The boy smirked and stashed the now-empty weapon beneath his pillow. “There you are, a breakfast fitting of your ilk. Eat up.”

Sebastian knew better than to argue this order. He tossed back the three metal lozenges, feeling their cold slug down his throat. They wouldn’t hurt him, but they would weigh inside him for a few hours before the ichor and _matière obscure_ that made up his viscera would completely dissolve the obstruction. “My lord–”

“Things have been far too easy for you lately,” Ciel interrupted, though his voice was even. “The Queen hasn’t requested our services in months. But that doesn’t mean I can allow my weapon to rust, now, does it?”

Sebastian felt something sinister and loyal flash inside him. The feeling of old times, the hunts for a cold-blooded foe… yes, he missed those days. But Ciel was not reminiscing. This was still a punishment for yesterday’s impertinence. Sebastian bowed his head over the tray, pretending not to know this. “A wise thought, my lord. You yourself are in mint condition. Were that anyone but myself, your aim would have been fatal. “

Ciel reached out for the teacup when it was handed over. He was studying Sebastian with his eyes. He sniffed the air. “You smell like pig fat.”

“My apologies, my lord. I’ve just finished making breakfast; you’ll find it in the dining room downstairs, when you are ready.” Sebastian handed the young master today’s copy of the _Daily Telegraph_. Ciel flared the newspaper open with a few shakes and stuck his face right into it.

As his master read, Sebastian moved over to the armoire to put together today’s wardrobe. “There is a small chill in the air this morning, but the weather has grown fairer with the rising of the sun. It would be best to go wearing a coat, and then you may remove it, if you so choose.” Ciel grunted in acknowledgement, absorbed in the text. “I’ll be back momentarily.”

The base of the flat iron over the fire was glistening bright. Sebastian used a hook to remove it and then wrapped the handle in a towel before transporting it back upstairs. He set the hot iron on a bar of soap he’d placed on the ironing board. Then he dampened the clothes just slightly with drops of water before setting to work. A normal person would need the clothing to retain much more water before ironing, but Sebastian’s care and skill made this unnecessary.

He promptly had a pair of black trousers creased and a vest uncreased to perfection. The vest itself was a lovely piece, white with a muted gold tapestry brocade – it would be a shame when the young master outgrew it. Next, he chose one of the high collar shirts Nina sent and a black, lightweight overcoat. He pulled the ensemble together with a deep green silk puff tie with tone-on-tone paisley.

The clothes were still warm when it was time to get dressed. The boy beneath the fabric spoke not a word as the attire was tugged at his ankles and wrists, smoothed across his shoulders and back.

“There we are.” Sebastian leaned away to assess his handiwork. “All that’s left is the young master’s hair.”

Sebastian went to the armoire and came back with a comb, pulling vibrant gray strands neatly along the scalp until they fell like obedient rivers around the boy’s ears and forehead. “Very good. You look quite ready for the day, my lord.”

“About time. I’m starving.” Ciel turned away from the demon, striding towards the exit in spat ankle boots, the same handsome black as his trousers. Before he could reach the door, he stopped. “Oh, Sebastian.”

“Yes, my lord?” Sebastian finished putting away the board and iron, now cool.

“I want you to slick back your hair today. The way my aunt likes it.” Ciel’s stature didn’t change but his words were poignantly enunciated when he said, “I know it’s not your ideal fashion, but I think she may have a point of her own. _Don’t you?_ ”

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Hammond and Broglie were happy to lend some of their pomade, an awful substance made of bear fat that left a greasy residue on Sebastian’s fingers, uncomfortable even once his gloves were adorned. It would absorb into his skin soon enough, but his hair would stay styled back as long as Ciel insisted on it. Sebastian’s tastes tended to fall in line with older beauty standards, but his opinions on hair differentiated entirely. This style showed more of his forehead than he liked, made his hair artificially shiny. In his opinion hair should be tamed, cut, and cleaned regularly, but should not be so sullied with these unnatural substances. It was lovely enough when treated with care – why anyone would grease back their soft mane with lanolin and lard until it resembled the shining shell of beetle was beyond this demon’s reasoning.

But it had to be done… and when that sorry task was finished, Sebastian left the servants’ quarters in the direction of the dining room. Passing through the main room on his way, he immediately noted Alexis standing before the kindling left in the fireplace, admiring an eight-point rack mounted above it. Sebastian realized his good fortune at finding the marquis alone. Now was the chance to introduce him to the idea of being Ciel’s guide.

“Good morning, sir,” Sebastian greeted, with a slight bow as he approached.

Alexis smiled brightly, with his eyes closed, in Sebastian’s direction. “Good morning to you, too, Sebastian.” When his eyes opened, he blinked and then laughed. “Well, that hair is certainly different from the usual! It looks as though my wife got ahold of you, hm?”

Sebastian smiled badly in place of an answer. “Different, yes… Beg your pardon, Marquis Midford, for my abrupt change in topic. I regret that I must speak to you plainly for a moment. I have a rather personal offer in regards to my young master. You’ll have to excuse my sudden and forward nature. I promise I only ask this out of high regard for your expertise.”

Alexis turned the rest of his body to face him with solemn curiosity. “Oh? What could this be about? By all means.”

Sebastian thanked him and clasped his hands behind his back. “The young master is of an age,” he began. “You may yourself remember what it is to be so young. It is a complicated time for him, one riddled with questions and… new experiences.”

A knowing smile slowly spread across the marquis’ face. “Yes, absolutely. It was for Edward, for myself, and no doubt for Ciel, too.”

“Absolutely, sir. So I suppose it is of no surprise to hear that my lord is in need of guidance. I can think of no one better to teach him. I don’t ask this as if to say you aren’t already an exemplary figure to him. Simply put, he is in need of someone who can answer all of his questions without judgment, someone he can already trust. Of course, I say none of this as a command–”

Alexis raised his hand to silence him. “Sebastian, please – let me spare you the embarrassment of further speaking,” he said with reassurance. “Allow me to handle the rest of the discussion from here. I’m sure whatever you’ve already talked with Ciel about has been more than your position should require. You poor fellow!” Alexis laughed.

The marquis seemed to quickly catch on to Sebastian’s request; he even seemed to know that Ciel had put his butler through some trials. “It isn’t an impertinence to be asked anything by my master,” Sebastian said. “I merely believe a family member would be much more suited to the task of educating him. I think the young lord turns to me because I am the most accessible. Though you have surely proven yourself an available resource to him at all times, if you were to make it quite clear he could speak with you about anything and everything, I feel it would bring him some comfort.”

“You are too kind,” Alexis laughed again. “I don’t know if it will bring him comfort to speak with me now, but he may well thank me in his adult years.” He clapped his hands together. “I’m glad you felt like you could approach me, Sebastian. In any case, I suppose it’s about time I got on to breakfast. Are you going to the dining room as well?”

Sebastian bowed again. “I am indeed. Thank you for listening to my humble words, sir. Your graciousness is very much appreciated.”

Though pleased with his success, Sebastian had a strange sensation that that had gone… a little _too_ well. It was curious that Alexis had already predicted talking to Ciel would involve a bit of arguing here and there, which may keep Ciel from truly appreciating the advice until he was older. But then again, Alexis had raised Edward, so he probably had a much better idea of what to expect from a fourteen-year-old boy than Sebastian had. So Sebastian doubted the human’s expertise no further, and felt satisfied that a teacher for Ciel had been swiftly pinpointed.

In the dining room, Ciel and Aunt Francis sat across from each other. She was looking at him sternly but not angrily, while he was staring at his plate with a sort of aloof discomfort, mopping a square of French toast around in some syrup. “Well, what could you two be talking about?” Alexis asked as he took his place at the head of the table, Sebastian standing along the wall behind his master.

Francis leaned back in her dining chair. “I was just telling Ciel that, no matter what criticism he receives today or rumors he hears about the party last night, it is best to stay dignified in the face of it.”

Ciel ate his forkful and continued to analyze his plate. After giving his nephew a glance, Alexis hummed an understanding tone in the back of this throat, and reached forward a fork and knife to take some French toast for himself. “Well, that is true. It’s a new day, and a new chance to prove yourself. But understand, too, that no matter what rumors are passed around, your aunt and I will stand up for your reputation. ”

The boy was clearly uncomfortable beneath the gazes of two adults who looked at him not like he was the imposing Earl of Phantomhive, but just another aristocrat boy who’d stepped a toe out of line and needed a lecture. Ciel took a long time finishing his bite. At last he swallowed and wiped at his mouth delicately with his napkin. “Thank you, Uncle, but I don’t care what anyone says about me. The people who consider last night’s incident valuable gossip simply aren’t worth acknowledging. I’ve merely decided to ignore them.”

Alexis and his wife turned to each other. “Well… All right,” the marquis said to Ciel at last. “Good… Good. I’m glad you aren’t feeling… intimidated.” Francis shot her husband a look, and Alexis raised his shoulders and dropped them, as if to say, “I wasn’t sure how to respond to that.”

“Ciel,” Francis went on in her hard tone, “you seem to be forgetting that _you_ are at fault for this, not the people who decide to talk about you and Lady Dawes. I don’t want to see any of last night’s attitude in you today. If anyone approaches you, you speak politely. You apologize if necessary. You bow your head. Do you understand?”

Ciel bristled. Sebastian could imagine the clenched jaw, the only thing keeping back a sharp retort. There was a slow, very begrudging nod instead.

How the boy hated being told what to do! Especially by anyone who considered him naïve and in-need of their direction. What made it all worse, of course, was the fact that Ciel knew he deserved it. If his aunt and uncle said nothing to curb his behavior, they would be even less respectable. And so, with dignity marred, Ciel swallowed down their commentary like bitter medicine.

Lizzie came in a second later to save the atmosphere, giving a twirl in an elegant emerald walking suit, dripping with so much white lace on the jacket’s bell sleeves and ruched skirt that she seemed hemmed in snowflakes. Compared to her mother’s own high-collared brown walking suit, which was all angles and shapeliness, it was as though a peahen had raised a swan. Then the conversation turned to reminding Lizzie not to spin too much or her ankles would show, and how fun it would be to see Edward bowling, and Ciel was left alone.

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By half past eleven, the Midfords and their procession made it to the sprawling lawns surrounding Weston’s cricket fields. Half a mile away, the school buildings’ red bricks shone with young sunlight across a glittering expanse of Thames’ water. Spring had come to Oxford on the perfect day. Students were beginning to fill the pavilion. The few visiting families that had arrived early were picnicking as well and were scattered throughout the lawn. Some groups sat on blankets in the grass, while others had brought chairs and tables and ate as they would in their own homes.

The Midfords went with the latter option. Sebastian had lashed four chairs and a small, round metal table to the roof of the carriage. He, Broglie, and Hammond carried the furniture now to a spot beneath a wych elm on the cricket field’s outskirts. Paula had one of the three picnic baskets – she and Lizzie shared the handle of another, the lightest basket, Lizzie having clamored for the sheer experience of it. Sebastian had the heaviest basket in his right hand, the same arm wrapped around the seat of an outdoor chair. His left arm hoisted up the table, the underside of its base resting atop his slick hair.

Hammond was looking at Sebastian with bafflement. “How in blazes do you hold all that?” He himself bore only one chair, a tablecloth, and the box for cutlery. Considering the distance they had to walk from the carriage, for the average human that was a fine load.

“When one has the strength, it all comes down to a matter of balance,” Sebastian answered cheerily. Middle-aged Broglie had to stop and take a rest halfway to the tree, so Hammond waited with him, shaking his head as Sebastian proceeded onward with all the effortlessness of a tightrope walker.

Beneath the elm, Lizzie had opened her basket and was admiring the presents inside. “This all looks so scrumptious!” she sang. “Can we eat right away? Before it cools down too much? Please, Mother? There are hot cross buns, so we have to eat them while they’re hot! It wouldn’t be right not to!”

“If you promise to stop kneeling in the grass like that, yes, we can eat,” Francis reprimanded, but had to smile at her daughter’s barely-contained excitement, the bounce of her candy floss curls.

Broglie and Hammond had just caught up to the group with their chairs and placed them in a ring around the table so that their masters may sit. Lizzie moved her chair closer to Ciel’s, touching his fingers to get his attention and pointing to some swans far off in the pond, swimming in tandem. Paula helped Sebastian fill the plates with squares of cheese and pickled onions, pâté and thin slices of baguette, semicircles of apple and lovely fat grapes, and of course the buns Lizzie anticipated.

“So yummy!” she crooned immediately after her first bite. “Sebastian’s cooking is the best in the world!”

“Too kind, as ever, my lady,” Sebastian said, a hand placed where his heart would have been.

“Your cooking is fine,” Aunt Francis said. “I’m much more satisfied with your current hairstyle. Usually I have to remind you to look like a proper gentleman. Did my teachings finally sink in?”

 _Your teachings, or a certain pair of allegorical fangs_ , Sebastian frowned, watching Ciel polish off a bun and lick at the end of his thumb.

As time grew closer to the match between Weston’s Green and Red houses, the lawns began to fill up completely. Where at first families had spread out their picnic blankets and wicker furniture far apart from each other, now the crowd had no choice but to sit packed together like tinned fish. A particularly large group was staked out just to the left of the little Midford gathering. Two young ladies with glasses of lemonade stood to stretch and take a turn around their blanket, their gossip leaking over their shoulders as they passed.

“… I heard it happened at the Goode’s party last night.”

“Did he really say that? I wish I’d been there to hear it for myself, but my father doesn’t donate.”

“I wasn’t there either. But as far as I know, it really happened.”

“Do you think he’d had a bit to drink?”

“To make such a statement? I hope he had a lot to drink!”

The women tittered into their hands, clearly trying not to sound too scandalous, but the Midfords had heard enough. They conspicuously turned to Ciel to gauge his response.

Ciel’s eyes were closed as he took an especially large bite of a Cornish pasty. When he finished chewing, they were still staring. “I told you,” Ciel sniffed, “they can say whatever they want about me. I don’t care.”

Aunt Francis narrowed her gaze after the two magpies. “Making assumptions about imbibing though – what rubbish! … You didn’t drink anything, did you?”

“No, Aunt Francis…”

“Good.”

Elizabeth wrapped her arms around one of Ciel’s, puffing out her cheeks. “No one ought to be talking about my fiancé like that, especially if they weren’t there!” she declared, as if her mother hadn’t given her that same scolding last night in the carriage.

“It’s right to ignore the gossip-mongers,” Uncle Alexis said. “What matters is that we know what happened. They can pretend to know all they like, but it will never change the truth.”

Still, Francis made sure to glare at the women when they returned to their starting place minutes later, their lack of discretion likely perturbing her more than their conversation’s subject matter. The friends were still babbling loudly and didn’t notice her expression.

“Well he is here today, so he must be serious about what he said!”

“Did you see how fast those boys were, practicing? Like a couple of greyhounds, back and forth between the wickets! They must know about his proposal too.”

“I don’t know how I feel about the competition though. I think it discourages sportsmanship.”

“Oh, it’s still all in good fun! Besides, it’s not as if they’re gambling. In the end, everyone wins.”

“But an entire pound per point the winning team scores! What an incredible donation. If I were Mr. Fairclough, I’d be sweating under the collar.”

Lizzie and Alexis looked confused, but Francis and Ciel’s eyes immediately widened with understanding. Sebastian smirked from his place beneath the tree. He’d too understood. _“Make your apology gracious and allow me to do the rest… You can be certain that I will keep tonight’s incident from traveling farther than Mr. Goode’s doorstep.”_ That was what Henri Fairclough had promised Ciel at the party, though his plan to fulfill said promise had been unknown at the time. Apparently this plan involved making a donation to Weston so enormous that no one even remembered Ciel’s outburst: the gossip today would consist solely of Fairclough’s deep pockets, and how well the boys would play to assure the most money for their school. A professional game of cricket could reach over two hundred points – the students likely wouldn’t reach a score that impressive, but even half as many pounds would be a load off one’s wallet.※

The marchioness pressed her thin mouth to her knuckles. “That was far too generous.”

Ciel swallowed. “I agree.”

“What was far too generous?” Alexis asked.

Francis shook her head. “Later. Ciel, we have to make sure we find Mr. Fairclough and thank him before the game ends today. I don’t know why he thought he needed to do something so utterly outlandish, but he still deserves our gratitude.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Ciel had gone polite with shock – he stared at his empty white plate on the table fixedly. He seemed to be trying to work out why anyone would do such an incredible favor for him.

Then the start of the first inning announced itself with an uproar from the students in the pavilion as the two teams made their way out to the field. Lizzie sprung to her feet and bounced on her toes when she recognized Edward amongst the players. The rest of the family also stood as Weston’s orchestra struck up the first notes of “God Save the Queen.” Ciel mumbled over the words; Sebastian could see, out of the corner of his eye, that the boy’s brows were knitted, thoughts tumbling about in his brain.

The anthem ended. Students in coordinated uniforms came together in a ring. A coin was tossed by one of the umpires, and though the viewers could not tell who won the flip, Green House was batting first. As the players got into position, the band struck up again, this time with “Georgia Camp Meeting,” and Lizzie’s interest was taken by the game. She was not particularly competitive, nor did the sport intrigue her more than other recreation, but she did want to be in the thick of things, because she loved to have something to talk about later on. Ciel was staring off into space, unmoving, thinking intensely. Between the two children, there was such a fierce concentration that neither budged when Sebastian placed a tray of petit fours on the table for dessert.

Uncle Alexis did reach for one. “Something on your mind, Ciel?”

Ciel blinked back into focus. “Well, yes,” he admitted. “I can’t stop thinking about Mr. Fairclough… I met with him last night by chance and told him about… er, what I said. We’ve only been distantly acquainted - he’s been a major consumer to Funtomhive. I met him for the first time at the Goode’s party, and he assured me that he would keep rumors from spreading about the… altercation with Lady Dawes. I didn’t think much of his claim; I didn’t think there was really anything he could do. Evidently, there was. The proposition that Mr. Fairclough made, to award the school a pound per point scored by the winning team… I can’t help but feel he did that so as to distract everyone from me.”

Alexis’ surprise had been growing in his expression throughout that explanation. “Goodness,” he finally breathed, adjusting his tie, “but to do something like that, without a second thought… you would have to be–”

“Intoxicated,” Aunt Francis filled in. “I changed my mind: I think those two young ladies had a point after all. What Mr. Fairclough comes across to me as is a wastrel. We asked him to do no such thing for us. This was all of his own accord.”

“I still need to thank him,” Ciel insisted. “I ought to give him something in return… I’ll just let him know the next display window is his, no bidding necessary.”

“No, you will not,” Aunt Francis chastened. “Then you would be saying that you owe him something in return and you acknowledge this as an exchange, not a favor. Certainly thank him, but no more than that. I don’t need my nephew getting in financial straits with such a blatant spendthrift.”

“Dear, this money is being donated. He’s not a spendthrift, he’s a philanthropist,” Alexis said kindly.

Ciel’s fingers flinched. He found philanthropists overbearing.

“Either way,” Aunt Francis continued, “he isn’t someone we’re familiar with. And I have especial trouble with people who so eagerly bandage a wound with money.”

“Y-You don’t really think he’s a philanthropist, do you?” Ciel asked, a little rushed.

That was when Lizzie gasped and pointed to the field, where the players were switching positions. “Edward’s bowling now!” She hopped to her feet, made her way around the picnickers, and dashed over to the chalk lines that divided the playing area from the spectators. “Edward! Your sister’s watching you! You can do it!”

“Lizzie! Don’t distract him! And stop jumping around!” With a small groan, Francis lifted her skirts and tagged after her giddy daughter. Lizzie kept waving at Edward, who scratched at the back of his neck but, Sebastian could see from afar, grinned hugely at the attention from his little sister.

Ciel sighed, leaning against the metal leaves that made up the support of his chair. “I’m glad Aunt Francis went with her. I don’t feel like running about right now.” Then he reached forward to the petit fours on the table. “And I want to try some of these.”

Alexis laughed twice. “Well then, since the ladies are gone, this might be the perfect opportunity for us to have a talk, hmm?”

The chocolate hesitated before Ciel’s mouth, and he grimaced. Being with Elizabeth suddenly seemed the better option.

“Uncle…” he began unsteadily. “Can’t we talk after the match, back at home instead? I don’t really want to think about last night right now. It’s such a nice spring day, after all. Don’t you think it would be better not to spoil it?”

“It is a nice spring day,” Alexis agreed. “In fact, it’s the perfect sort of day for what I really want to talk to you about.”

“What you… _really_ want to talk to me about?” Ciel repeated, in a tone less than enthusiastic.

Uncle Alexis didn’t start his speech right away. He surveyed Ciel from where he sat with a hand on his chin, a gentlemanly smile lifting up one cheek. Ciel pressed himself into the back of the chair, tapping the metal armrests with his fingertips, a look of suspicious uncertainty clouding his eye. He didn’t know where this conversation was going to go, but it was clear Ciel already didn’t like it. Sebastian kept himself busy packing away silverware and containers into the baskets, pretending this scene held no interest to him whatsoever.

After a long minute, his uncle said, “Ciel, you’re growing up to be a fine young man.”

“Erm, thank you,” Ciel said flatly.

“I mean that,” Alexis insisted, mistaking his nephew’s wariness for disbelief. “You are very mature for your age. In many ways, I forget you aren’t already an adult.” Ciel’s lips parted in an imperceptible huff. He despised being told he was a youth. “In your fourteen years, there’s been a lot you’ve had to learn on your own. And, in certain cases, I believe it is better to learn from firsthand experience. In other cases, we need to be taught. Finally, there are lessons we could uncover ourselves but would appreciate guidance on. The trouble arises when we struggle to ask for that guidance.”

Ciel lowered his eyelids, bearing, for once, the classic expression of a judgmental adolescent. Meanwhile, Sebastian couldn’t have been more pleased. The marquis offered his knowledge in a way absolutely fitting of Ciel and his past predicaments. Certainly it would take the boy a while to warm up to the idea of sharing his trepidations, but Alexis’ proposition was thus far going very well, in Sebastian’s opinion.

“Sometimes we don’t ask for guidance because we feel ashamed or embarrassed,” Uncle Alexis continued. “Our society teaches us what we should and shouldn’t say. But between family members, no questions should be disallowed. That is what family is for.”

“…” Ciel tilted his chin away. “Why are you telling me this all of a sudden?”

Alexis, tactfully, did not divulge Sebastian’s prodding. “The timing seemed right, it being spring, and it being just the two of us at the table, without your aunt or cousin to listen in.”

“The timing seemed right for… what?”

“To talk about life,” Alexis said. “I was your age, once. I remember what it is like to have a hundred questions and not know how to begin asking them.”

Ciel was flabbergasted. “A hundred questions on _what?_ ”

The marquis smiled again. “Men. Women. The duty that comes with marriage – the act that all of us one day perform, if we wish to carry on our bloodline and plan for the future. Edward especially needed this information, being surrounded by several young men with their own opinions and no experience at all in the ways of love. English society is too eager to keep young minds away from this knowledge, but I believe it is wrong to. Copulation is very much a part of life. It is as natural as breathing. We can scorn intimacy as much as we like, but it simply cannot go away – and so I want to make sure you are aware what the truth of it is, so that when your time comes, you do not feel addled about what to do.”

Oh, dear. Evidently, the marquis had _not_ understood what Sebastian had requested of him after all.

Throughout that dissertation, Ciel’s face had been drained of all color and then splashed with it, now a hot beet red from chin to ears. His mouth and eyebrows quirked, unable to find the words or expression to respond to all this adequately. Any other time Sebastian would have been desperately restraining himself from laughter, and no doubt the Undertaker would find this scene alone worth a secret or two. But, unfortunately, Sebastian knew what he was bearing witness to was a failure on his part and the part of the marquis. The last thing Ciel would be was willing to talk to his uncle now.

As Alexis launched into an extended explanation for why this sacred topic need not be so taboo, Ciel slowly slid the petite four between his lips and began chewing to buy himself some time. He looked around for an escape, scarcely moving his head, and at last found an out.

“O-Oh, look! There’s Mr. Fairclough by the mid wicket!” Ciel interrupted. He laughed hastily and popped out of his chair. “I had better go thank him for yesterday before he moves off somewhere else! Excuse me, Uncle–!”

Ciel weaved through the throng like there were hounds threatening his heels. That descriptor of his escape would certainly buy another tidbit from the Undertaker – but what was gained could not compare to what was lost.

“Hmm.” The marquis settled one arm on the armrest and rubbed his chin with the other. “Maybe I was being too boring…”

Sebastian didn’t respond. He watched Ciel dash up to Mr. Fairclough, Fairclough turning when Ciel called out to him. He smiled broadly at the boy as he caught up. There was too much sound interference to hear what they were saying, and Sebastian could only see Fairclough’s face, as Ciel’s back was turned. He made out the following lip readings in order:

“So, we meet again!” “For what?” Laughter. “I told you I would, didn’t I? I’m as good as my word.” A more serious but still jovial expression. “Lord Phantomhive, you are so humble. If it brings you comfort, I was going to make such a statement regardless.” “All right, you caught me; it isn’t a complete truth. However, for the sake of my client, I did want this cricket match to be especially exciting, and the promise of monetary winnings has the students at top-tier, I’m sure!” “Yes. My client is a benefactor himself – not much of one for parties, though. A very solitary sort. That’s where I come in.” “Would you, now?” That was when Ciel gave a furtive glance back at his uncle, a ways away, and nodded fervently. “Well, if the Earl of Phantomhive himself wants to know, I would be more than obliged to explain what I do! Let us walk the perimeter while we talk.”

That was when the two began to pace the opposite direction along the outskirts of the cricket field, Fairclough’s face no longer visible from Sebastian’s angle. He had gathered enough from the conversation to know that Ciel had engaged Fairclough so as to avoid facing Alexis again. Sebastian sighed, unable to follow the pair, though rather appreciative that the marquis didn’t ask him for a critique. Elizabeth and her mother returned not long after anyway, and Alexis and his wife were able to talk while their daughter struggled to stay seated due to the intensity of the match. At this point, the pavilion had turned into a collective shout as the students, made wild with competition, chanted the color of their house or the house they wanted to see win. Even some of the noble gentlemen lost their heads over this mere college match, jumping up out of their chairs on occasion while their wives looked away in embarrassment or tugged them back down by their sleeves.

By the time the match was nearing its close, the score was Green 111, Red 107, and the tension was at its peak. Two young men by the pavilion even got into fisticuffs over something no doubt trivial, and it was broken up almost as soon as it began. As the game was in its final minutes, Ciel had still not returned to the table.

The marchioness would never lose her composure over a sporting event, even with her son pitching an incredibly tight game. “Where is Ciel?” she leaned over to ask her husband. “I don’t want to go looking for him in this crowd after the match ends. Everyone will be leaving at once, and it will be too easy to miss each other.”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Alexis answered. “He went to go speak with Mr. Fairclough about an hour ago and hasn’t returned since.”

“Allow me to go looking for him,” Sebastian offered. “It may be he forgot the exact location of the picnic and became lost.”

Alexis nodded. “That’s a high possibility. We’ll stay put and wait, in case he comes back.”

Sebastian stepped over skirt hems and stray legs and baskets with uncalculated ease, sensing for his master’s soul and following its pull. It was possible that Ciel had gotten lost in the throngs, but Sebastian highly doubted that: Ciel’s sense of direction had always been strong. Indeed, after five minutes of brisk pacing, Sebastian noted him by the pond, still beside Mr. Fairclough, though the two of them were no longer alone.

A pair of adults and a pair of children were standing before the young master and the gentleman, a family most likely. Sebastian did not recognize the two adults, both dark-haired and tall, a sure coupling of beautiful aristocrats. The daughter, farthest from Sebastian, had her face blocked by her mother’s shoulder. However, the youngest member of the family, a skinny black-haired boy in a Weston school uniform, scuffing at the grass with his toe, was immediately recognizable.

“We’ve been looking all over for the Midfords and for you,” Lord Reubin was saying. “I suppose this is what they call ‘two birds with one stone.’”

Lady Reubin nodded, more to her husband than anyone else. “We can’t appreciate what you did for our son enough. Can we, Lyle?” The little Heathcliff was then taken by his wrist and turned around to face Fairclough. “Say thank you to Mr. Fairclough, Lyle. Without his intervention, you know you wouldn’t be in school right now.”

Lyle’s gratitude was evidently not up to snuff, as his father reprimanded, “Raise your chin now, Lyle, so that we all may hear you.” The second attempt didn’t look much better than the first. Lyle’s father relented, but his mother leaned down to him and said something sternly into his hair. “I’m beginning to understand the purpose of your profession,” Lord Reubin continued; Lyle went back to kicking at loose earth. “I never realized how difficult it is to communicate with the school board until, well… we had to. It really is a unique job though. And you said you came up with it yourself?”

Fairclough waved his hand. “No, no, I didn’t come up with it – I just happen to know the clever gentleman who did. Funny how many questions I’m getting about my job today! Lord Phantomhive has been an exceptional ear this afternoon. Then again, I suppose I did make some people worried with my financial proposition last night. How kind and unexpected for others to be so considering my purse. I wish I could assure everyone, this is a well-paying business. I doubt it will be long before every college of prestige has their own public relations committee.”

“Every college! Well, that would be bad for you, then, wouldn’t it? Competition.”

“Perhaps, perhaps! But my partners and I have a niche market that I’m not sure the school itself would be able to capitalize on.”

“How much you’ve already considered the future of your service!” Lord Reubin said with intrigue. “I’m glad to hear that you’re doing well. If times get rough, however, please do know I’d be happy to help endorse.”

“Isn’t that a glorious offer!” Fairclough exclaimed. “Your good word, I believe, would be more ideal than funds at this time, should you meet anyone in a similar predicament.”

 There was a sudden roar of human noise when the game ended in Green House’s victory. “One hundred and fourteen points,” Lord Reubin read aloud from the scoreboard across the way. “My, those boys played like champions out there.”⸸

“Are you in the Red or Green House, Lyle? Or one of the other two?” Mr. Fairclough asked.

Lyle was turned to the side when he mumbled, “I’m a Violet Wolf.”

“A wolf? How very imposing,” Fairclough commented.

“Wolves can bite even with their heads cut off,” said Lyle suddenly.

“Goodness. Where did you hear such a thing?” Lady Reubin choked.

“You shouldn’t talk so darkly,” Lord Reubin scolded.

“Cheslock taught me that,” declared Lyle, “but I know plenty of worse things.”

Lady Reubin then took Lyle by the hand and marched him a short distance away.

“I’m sorry about him,” Lord Reubin apologized.

“Don’t be,” Fairclough said. “And now you’ll have to pardon me, as well, for I should have met up with my client a while ago. I’ve certainly been keeping him waiting.”

That was when Ciel spoke up. “You should have told me sooner, Mr. Fairclough; I’ve been delaying you from your work.”

“I lost track of time,” Fairclough admitted. “You had me wrapped up in a good conversation. I was happy to have it.”

“Please, do what you have to do. I’m glad we got a chance to speak with you today.” Mr. Reubin extended his hand to shake it with Fairclough’s. “Lord Phantomhive, as I said before, I’m lucky we met up with you, too, because we’ve been walking around the lawn, trying to find the Midfords. We’d love it if everyone could come to our house for dinner tonight. Would you mind showing us where you and your family are sitting so that we can extend the invitation?”

“Certainly. Mr. Fairclough, a pleasure,” Ciel said, with an honest warmth, as he turned away.

“And to you too, Lord Phantomhive. Any time,” Fairclough returned in the same tone.

Ciel led the way for the Reubin family, the daughter pacing briskly along with her father, mother walking behind with the son kept close. Moments after parting, a voice rang out, “Fairclough! Where the devil have you been?!” A serious, mustached fellow was sprinting over to the aforementioned man, his expression riddled with impatience. Ciel turned to the scene, but it was too late for him to overhear the discussion between his newfound hero and the man who shouted at him. But, tucked away in the field of departing civilians, it was not too late for Sebastian.

“Our client has been waiting all afternoon for you!” the serious man barked. “I can’t make anything happen without you, you know. _You’re_ the one with all the charm and ideas. I’m just there to execute them.”

“Calm down, Romilly,” Fairclough sighed. “He had the game to keep him occupied, didn’t he? I’m sure he was quite satisfied to watch. Those boys were really playing today, after all.”

“And so were you,” Romilly sniffed. “What were you doing, talking with that kid for so long? He isn’t even a student.”

“That ‘kid’ is Lord Ciel Phantomhive,” Fairclough corrected. “Speak with more dignity, why don’t you? He may be young, but he’s high-titled. And he’s a good acquaintance of mine.”

Romilly had a look of sharp confusion on his face. “You’ve not been yourself today, Clough.”

“Let’s just say…” Fairclough paused for a moment. “Let’s just say, I’m beginning to understand my job on a more personal level. That’s all.”

Sebastian felt a sudden tap on his shoulder and turned around. A middle-aged gentleman in a boater hat had his arm outstretched.

“Excuse me, good man,” the stranger said, “are you all right? You’ve been standing there for a long time, still as a statue.”

“… Yes.” Sebastian began to walk back in the direction of the Midfords, aware he should arrive with or shortly after Ciel did. “I’m quite well. Pardon me.”

Behind him, Sebastian heard the man say, “He was making me nervous like that. He was staring as if he’d seen death itself.”

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The Midfords did join the Reubins for dinner and stayed until half past nine. Lizzie was delighted to gush about possible marriage proposals of the social season with Jane, while Alexis and Francis informed the Reubin parents about their experiences with Weston. Ciel and Lyle gave more attention to their roasted game bird and fiddleheads. It wasn’t until Mr. Fairclough came up in conversation that Ciel said much of anything at all.

“He’s the reason that Lyle got a place secured at Weston,” Lord Reubin enthused. “He was able to convince the board of trustees to accept Lyle, despite his prior expulsion and his entrance in the middle of the school year.”

“It can be so difficult to get your foot in the door,” Lady Reubin said. “These colleges can be so incredibly closed-off, especially if you’re not enrolled in them. I don’t know what he said to get them to listen to us, but that Mr. Fairclough must be fantastically convincing.”

“And here I was, thinking he was some sort of philanthropist,” Ciel mused. “He’s more of an entrepreneur, except that the clients come to him, rather than the other way around. Trustees and principals ask him about how they can increase donations, and he reaches out to the alumni and delivers their ideas to the school, and vice versa. It seems as though this system of communication has increased financial support for colleges exponentially. I expect this business model will catch on in a multitude of fields before long.”

“So, that’s what you got caught up talking about with Mr. Fairclough!” Alexis laughed. “I was beginning to wonder where you’d gone off to for so long.”

In response, Ciel concerned himself with a very long sip of water.

He wasn’t out of the clear once they made it home either. As everyone walked upstairs to settle down before bed, Alexis called out to his nephew, who was on his way to his room, “Ciel, about our conversation earlier–”

“Y-Yes, I remember it!” Ciel practically squeaked, his shoulders seizing up. He had made it halfway to his bedroom without talking to anyone and victory was in sight. “I understood, if I have questions I’ll be sure to ask, now I’m tired so I think I’m going to do some reading and go to sleep, goodnight!”

“Ciel, hang on…” But the boy had already hotfooted into his room down the opposite hall and closed the door.

The marquis shrugged at Sebastian, who had been left in his master’s wake. “Well,” Alexis half-laughed, “no one can say I didn’t try.” 

“Certainly, sir,” Sebastian agreed, for it had indeed been no more than a try.

In the bedroom, Ciel was standing in the center of the carpet, his hands pressed over his glowing face. “Why in God’s name,” he said in a muffled snarl, “is my uncle trying to… teach me about… _carnal knowledge?_ ”

Sebastian decided to dance around the truth of the situation. “His intentions were well-meant, I’m sure.”

“Oh there you _are_ , agreeing with them again,” Ciel spat. He tore off his suit jacket and tossed it aside. “Why does everyone seem to think they know what’s best for me these days? My aunt thinks I need lessons in humility, and my uncle…” Ciel flushed again. “You’d think he’d realize the Queen’s guard dog isn’t so ignorant about the truths of… procreation! _Honestly!_ ”

Ciel plopped on the edge of the bed with his arms folded. Presently, his jaw tightened. “Maybe it’s all right if he thinks I know nothing about that,” he finally said, with a soft poison lacing his words. “It’s better than him knowing how acquainted I really am.”

Sebastian stood by, saying nothing. Eventually Ciel took a breath out his nose, undoing that knot on his eye patch. “Draw me a bath, Sebastian. Standing around in all that grass and pollen this afternoon has made my skin itch.”

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Whether physically or metaphorically, Ciel had been far away from Sebastian all day. He wasn’t present during the bath either. He seemed to stare at nothing and said nothing as Sebastian scrubbed a warm washcloth in the valley between his shoulder blades. But the demon was distinctly aware that, if he took too long between applications of a sponge or soap or hand to Ciel’s person, the boy would startle beneath that touch, a singular flinch, the sign that his millisecond-long journey from thought to reality was not at all a pleasant one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ※: In 2000, a hundred pounds was equal to about £36,212, or $50,325. So not a big deal if you were from an upper-crust, old-money family (when you consider the millions that people donate nowadays), but still a very significant number for someone untitled like Fairclough.
> 
> ⸸: Fairclough ends up donating roughly today's equivalent of £41,282, or $57,371.


	9. The Fleece

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is called "The Fleece" because, well... it's almost entirely fluff. It's a transition into the next arc (the first real arc?!), but there was still plenty of space to fill after Easter, so I just decided to go for a straight-up happy chapter. I hope it's a nice breath of air amidst all the angst!

The weekend of the Oxford trip commenced with entirely less drama. The sky seemed to wake up from its spring dream, and the clouds cracked open with April showers. The Midfords chose to stay indoors and have a relaxing Saturday, reading before the main room’s fireplace and enjoying appetizers throughout the day. Sebastian had been to the market again that morning, and had Paula make simple cucumber bites with lox and finger sandwiches and bruschetta for snacking, while he prepared a marinade for tomorrow’s lamb supper. Before that, though, he mixed yellow and blue dye in a vase of water and speared a fresh white carnation into the liquid. Throughout the day, the flower would dye to a nice seafoam color to match Ciel’s ribbon for tomorrow’s Easter outfit.

In the kitchen, Sebastian prepared his ingredients: a jar of local honey, another of Dijon mustard, a long sprig of rosemary, and three gibbous moons of garlic to mash into brown paste. He was in the middle of separating rosemary leaves from their stem when the kitchen received unexpected guests.

“Sebastian!” Lizzie called, hurrying up to him in that same tea gown she’d worn the day they arrived, a clear favorite. “I saw the flower you’re dyeing on the window sill, and I thought perhaps you had more dye for making Easter eggs! Do you?”

Indeed he did, and plenty of eggs too, which he promised to begin hard-boiling at once. Lizzie darted back over to Ciel to give him the news. He was standing in the kitchen entrance, leaning his shoulder on the frame. Having now been embarrassed by both aunt and uncle, Ciel had at last recognized in his fiancé the one companion who wouldn’t mar his pride. Lizzie babbled at him excitedly and swung one of his hands in hers. Ciel listened in the way only a boy his age listened to kind girls: with a look that said he was softly perplexed by this enchanted and enchanting person, even as long as he’d known her. Sebastian left them to their innocence as he cleared away an old wooden table in the far corner of the room which had been used for keeping the largest cook pots and roasting pans. There he laid out a number of ramekins and the synthesized dyes in their eye dropper bottles.

Sebastian boiled water in a tea kettle at the same time he boiled the eggs. When the kettle whistled, he removed it from the flame and poured equal amounts of hot water into each ramekin. Ciel and Lizzie sat on stools before the table while Sebastian instructed them in how much dye to add to the water in order to reach a desired color, and what amounts of each to mix if they wanted a more yellow green or a more delicate purple. Lizzie was enthusiastic about making the colors just right, and Sebastian heard Ciel reminding her not to put too much dye in or the pink eggs would turn out red as blood. While the two of them discussed pigments like a pair of budding art students, Sebastian removed the finished eggs from their bath, dried them, and began to draw across one’s surface with a waxy white chinagraph pencil.

Ten minutes later, Sebastian brought over the eggs to see the dye mixes Ciel and Lizzie had concocted. The first ramekin contained a muddy color, a failed attempt at something, while the rest were emerald, orange, rose, yellow, and amethyst. Ciel was just finishing using a dropper to stir up a splendid indigo that Lizzie crooned was the same color as his ring. Ciel’s responding expression said this was unintentional but perhaps not undesired. Then Sebastian handed each of them a pair of tongs to submerge the eggs in the hot dyed water – the longer they did so, the richer the color would turn out. Finally, at the part of the table that faced the wall, Sebastian laid out wax paper for them to allow the eggs to dry on.

Minutes later, Lizzie gave a cry of discovery. “Oh my goodness, Ciel! Look at what appeared on my egg! It’s Bitter Rabbit!”

Sebastian turned to see Lizzie holding an egg aloft in her tongs. Ciel was blinking at the face of Funtom’s mascot Sebastian had drawn, a white wax outline on purple that had rejected the dye. He narrowed his eyes over at Sebastian next. “You and your parlor tricks…”

“It looks just like him!” Elizabeth was bouncing on her stool. “How are you so talented, Sebastian? This is the cutest Easter egg in the whole wide world!”

“Your compliments are, as always, graciously gifted, my lady.” Sebastian brought the white crayon over to her, bowing as he placed it in her palm. “You’ll find that most of the eggs come without art – I would be happy to make more, if you wish, or you can design your own.”

Lizzie was thrilled. “Ciel, let’s design our own!”

“You go ahead,” Ciel drawled, leaning on one elbow and removing an egg from the orange dye with his other hand. He gazed passively at the tiny ribbons and flowers Sebastian had etched onto the shell. “How does someone like you even think this up…” he muttered under his breath, knowing full well Sebastian could hear him.

“It’s like invisible ink,” Lizzie said, pressing the tip of the wax pencil to the eggshell. “I won’t even know exactly what I’ve drawn until I dye the egg. How exciting!”

A plethora of star-studded and polka-dotted eggs were placed on the wax paper like a festive army. Ciel continued to hold his plain eggs underwater, lift them out to check the color, and then submerge them again, as if administering a trial by water. Lizzie, noticing their lack of decorations, declared that this simply wouldn’t do.

“You have to put drawings on them!” she cried, holding out an unsullied egg and the crayon.

Ciel wrinkled up his nose. “I don’t want to draw anything.”

“Why not?”

“I never draw anything period. I see no reason to start now.”

“I never draw either. It’s just for fun,” Lizzie insisted, puffing out her cheeks. “Please, won’t you do just one? Please, please, please?”

Ciel huffed. “Fine, just one. But don’t expect to see the next William Blake…” He placed the tip of the crayon to the shell and paused. “Don’t watch me either. I can’t focus if you do.”

There being only one crayon between the two of them and no more decorated eggs to dye, Lizzie went to watch Sebastian prepare the marinade instead. She was intrigued with the way he zested a lemon, scraping only at the bright yellow layer and avoiding the white pith beneath. Then Lizzie looked on as Paula toasted little slices of bread for the bruschetta. Sebastian did admit, Elizabeth’s genuine curiosity about what the staff did was highly unusual – she had certainly not been _taught_ to treat the hired hands so obligingly. Of course the future Lady Phantomhive would be remarkable in her own way…

When Elizabeth noticed Ciel dunking his finished egg in the dye, she hurried back over to his side. “What did you make, what did you make?” she asked, peering over his shoulder into the blue water.

Ciel flinched at her unexpected closeness. He snorted. “I don’t know…”

“I can’t wait to see it,” Lizzie said. She plucked one of her own eggs off the wax paper, admiring the small mismatched hearts freckling the pink surface. Then she gasped. “After we finish dyeing them, let’s make egg hunts for each other around the house!”

“Fine. Sure.” Minutes later, Ciel took his egg out of the water. Sebastian, who was drenching the iced lamb shanks in honey-mustard at the kitchen’s center table, glanced over to see his master’s work. It was nothing terribly imaginative – an attempt at a checkerboard pattern, the squares in varying sizes. In some spots Ciel had forgotten which squares he’d colored in and which he hadn’t, so it wasn’t a consistent look either. Ciel was, naturally, not impressed with his own handiwork, but Lizzie bounced on her toes in excitement.

“What a great idea!” she chirped. “It’s so pretty! It’s just like you!”

“How is it anything like me…?” Ciel muttered, and placed it on the wax paper beside Lizzie’s many creations. “All right, I did it. You can dye the rest of the eggs, I’m tired of it already.”

“Aw, but Ciel! We have eight more eggs left, and we can’t let them stay white! It wouldn’t be any fun!”

“ _Fine_. You can draw on them and I’ll dye them. I just won’t make any more pictures.”

Lizzie hummed happily in her throat. “What a nice surprise this will be for Mother and Father, when they see all our hard work!”

“A surprise?” Ciel was puzzled. “And what hard work? We’re just playing around.”

“But the eggs look so lovely! So of course Mother and Father will want to see them!”

Ciel looked absurdly confused. “They’d be interested in this? Why?”

Elizabeth cocked her head to the side. “Why wouldn’t they be?”

“Well it’s not as though this was very difficult to do,” Ciel rebuffed. “I mean, especially for me. At least you put effort into yours, I just did a stupid design that I didn’t really even care about. Otherwise I just held eggs in dye.”

“Well, _we_ dyed them ourselves,” Lizzie reminded. “That’s what makes them special!”

Ciel’s face said he thought Elizabeth was over-embellishing in her usual way, but he was careful not to say anything that might insult her artwork. Paula brought over a basket, lined with hay, that she’d found in the horse’s outbuilding, and Lizzie arranged the eggs within it to her liking. Then, one hand on the basket’s handle and another clutching Ciel’s, she darted out of the kitchen to the main room. Their conversation emanated merrily from around the corner.

“Look at what Ciel and I made!” the girl cheered. “Aren’t they lovely? Sebastian showed us how to make patterns on them using a crayon! See, look, he drew Bitter Rabbit!”

“Wow… that’s very good.” It was the marquis that was speaking. “Look at all these fantastic eggs! I like this one the most. What pretty little constellations – is that Orion?”

“I made that one,” Lizzie beamed. “Mother, which one is your favorite?”

“Aside from the one with the rabbit?” There was a brief silence. “This checkered one is all right. It has an orderliness to it that the others don’t.”

“That’s the one that Ciel did!” Lizzie exclaimed.

“It looks terrible,” Ciel said, and, as if Lizzie had frowned at him, tacked on, “What? I’m only being honest about it.”

“Be careful with that honesty. You don’t want to insult someone’s opinion,” Francis scolded.

The marquis spoke next. “I don’t think I could have done so well. To me it looks very nice.”

Ciel seemed desperate to prove it wasn’t. “I missed filling in some of the squares. And drawing on an oblong surface made it impossible to keep everything evenly-sized.”

“Well then, that makes it even more impressive,” Alexis encouraged. “Good work, children, these are delightful. Let’s make them a centerpiece for Easter dinner.”

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Easter dinner itself went off without a hitch. Sebastian spent all day preparing it while the Midfords and the rest of the staff were at church. They attended a morning service at the Parish Church of Saint Mary and Saint John, which was just down the road from the house, and then an afternoon service at St. Mary Magdalen's, located in the Oxford city proper and promising a concert from their ten-bell arrangement. By the time the family came home at four o’clock, both Ciel and his mint flower looked wilted. Everyone was ready to eat, and Sebastian was ready to serve. The lamb was juicy and flavorful, or so the humans said, and the potatoes grand-mère was rich, and the asparagus was crisp, and the manchets were like the softest pillows. Anticipating overindulgence, Sebastian had made a lighter dessert, a Bakewell tart, but the only one with room for a slice was Ciel.

“My goodness. Don’t stuff yourself so,” Aunt Francis admonished. Sebastian took her empty dish away wordlessly. Though he would never voice his acknowledgement, a clean plate from the marchioness was a compliment of the highest order.

Ciel seemed to feel awkward having dessert while everyone else at the table watched. “I didn’t think I’d be the only one eating it,” he muttered.

“Well no law in the world says you have to finish all that is on your plate.”

Alexis laughed. “Eating a holiday feast and following it up with dessert is no great feat for someone Ciel’s age. I imagine you must be feeling hungry all the time now!”

Ciel did not respond, silently putting a forkful of tart into his mouth. He was still wary of his uncle and didn’t want another conversation about the fundamentals of adulthood sprung on him. And heaven forbid at the dining table in front of everyone else.

“Now I feel dozy,” Edward said, having joined the family at the second service, leaning down a bit in his chair. “Is it really only six o’clock? I’m practically ready to go to sleep.”

“You _have_ been keeping busy this weekend,” Alexis said, taking a sip of water from a wine glass, politely declining to drink on the Holy Day. “The cricket game on Friday, and the Easter program today, and I’m sure you were busy on Saturday celebrating your victory.”

“Yeah, we had a small sort of parade along the Thames, but it was cut short when it started to rain. Weston made us all an extra-nice dinner to thank us for the money we raised instead.” Edward leaned forward, thinking of something. “Some of the younger boys that played were telling me that a gentleman approached them after the parade to commend them on their fielding. Said he was looking to build some sort of professional team, wanted to start training young… It made the boys very excited, but I told them to keep their feet on the ground. I don’t think any Weston parents would want them to pursue such a lifestyle.”

“Good.” Aunt Francis was ever in-favor of demolishing castles in the air. “Besides, if anyone was playing well on Friday, it was you and the other senior boys. Why no one came up to you is what I find more curious.”

“Really, Mother? You think I could play cricket professionally?”

“Now I didn’t say that, Edward.”

After dinner, Lizzie proposed a competitive egg hunt to her brother and fiancé, in which she would hide the eggs and they would both have to look for as many as possible, with the winner being whomever found the most. Edward’s fighting spirit wouldn’t let Ciel refuse the challenge; Ciel merely said he preferred this to forfeits※, which was Lizzie’s original choice of parlor game. The boys were instructed to wait in the dining room while she prepared the scavenger hunt. Sebastian watched her bounce around the main room while he poured coffee for the marquis and marchioness by their place in front of the fire. There were sixteen eggs in all scattered throughout the room.

“All right, you two!” Lizzie called, after placing the last egg in the log holder by the fireplace. “You can start searching now!”

Ten of the eggs were found within the first two minutes, six by Ciel and four by Edward. During the next five minutes, all but one was found, and Edward was behind by one.

“The last egg counts for double!” he gambled.

“Does winning matter that much to you…?” Ciel said slyly, clearly trying to goad him on. “Tying with me isn’t good enough, hm?”

But apparently tying with his cousin wasn’t good enough for Ciel either, because when the two of them simultaneously sighted the final egg, laying just visible between the wooden slats in the upstairs banister, they both shot each other a wild look before making a dash for the stairwell. Losing themselves in the moment, there was a little bit of pushing and general roughhousing that the marchioness was not going to have.

“Stop. Stop, stop, stop,” she snipped, repeating herself four times, as it took Ciel a little bit longer to register her command. “What are you, water buffalo? There’s no need to stampede like that. You’re making the whole house shake. If you’re going to be raucous, then the game is over. You’ve both won. Now go play something quieter in the library.”

“Sorry, Mother,” Edward sighed, sheepish.

Lizzie hopped up from her chair in the corner. “Sorry, Mother! Well, let’s go play lookabouts⸸ upstairs until Edward has to go back to school!”

Ciel said nothing at the moment. But later, when it was time to get ready for bed, he declared to Sebastian fussily, “I am out of practice with parents.”

Monday morning was a drizzly one, and the family seemed reluctant to leave the warmth of their house for the cold and dripping cave of a world outside. All holidays had to come to an end sooner or later, though, and by ten o’clock everyone was in their travel clothes to depart. Sebastian, Paula, Broglie, and Hammond had stayed up late cleaning the kitchen and arisen early to cover the furniture and pack their masters’ belongings, so they could change the bed sheets while the Midfords ate breakfast.

Sebastian returned the horses to the stable they had been rented from and arranged for two covered hansoms to deliver everyone to the train station. Upon their arrival, each servant was equipped with an umbrella to shield the lords and ladies as they made their way inside. Tickets for a first-class compartment had been bought in advance, which was good, because much of the visiting gentry appeared to be traveling home today as well. Sebastian usually rode in the same compartment as Ciel, but of course he would not while his family was there, and so he sat in a middle-class cabin with the other servants, who, fortunately, were happy to sleep the whole three-hour trip away, leaving Sebastian to quietly contemplate.

Ciel had allowed neither aunt nor uncle to take him under their wing. As well, the vacation had not entirely seemed to relax him, as Sebastian had hoped it would. It made the demon wonder how Ciel would then respond to being the master of his own manor again: would he have a fresh sense of responsibility or would he want to slack off more than ever, delighted to be left alone, at least until the social season reached its peak? Would he want to spoil his health with more tarts and chocolate? Would he stay up into the wee hours of the morning, pushing work aside? And would Sebastian himself be forced to talk Ciel through the emotional moments when they arose?

Recent events would not go in this direction at all, Sebastian would eventually find out, and duty was the reason. But that discovery was yet another fortnight away. For now he could only ponder his fate, as the dull English countryside passed beyond the cabin’s rain-struck windows.

The Midfords and Ciel parted ways at the South Western Railway. Lizzie gave him a tight hug and made Ciel promise they’d meet with Nina before May Day to start planning outfits for the Royal Ascot. Alexis shook the boy’s hand and covertly reminded him that they could “talk whenever,” losing Ciel’s eye contact completely. Lastly, Francis put her hands on her nephew’s shoulders and told him that he must get his hair cut and at least consider slicking it back. Ciel sighed the affirmative, a bit sarcastically. Instead of wagging her finger, his aunt seemed to realize the impression she was giving off, and told him more familiarly that they should do this again next Easter. Then, with some awkwardness, she cupped her gloved fingers just under his jaw and looked at him as if she wanted to say more, but did not, other than a farewell. Then the Midfords went over to where a hansom that Broglie had hailed was waiting.

Nearby was a man with a capuchin monkey on a lead that Lizzie stopped to watch from afar. He had a hat on the ground with coins in it, donations from those who had seen the monkey perform. As the rain suddenly picked up, the monkey took the hat in both hands, spilled the coins onto the ground, and began using the bowler as an umbrella, chattering its sharp little teeth. Lizzie and her father began to laugh, a noise as clear and crisp as sunshine through the storm, their mirth following after Ciel and Sebastian into their own cab home.

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It was still raining a week later when Soma and Agni came to the manor for a surprise visit.

Sebastian blinked at the sight of them: Soma baring a close-lipped smile, eyes sparkling, excited as a child, and Agni behind him with a black umbrella, wearing a rather apologetic grin, as if to say, “Sorry for showing up unannounced.” The second thing Sebastian noticed was the carriage behind them, and how a small, tarp-covered cart had been lashed on to the back.

“Oh my.” Sebastian smiled back pleasantly. “Prince Soma and Agni. To what do we owe this visit?”

Soma took a breath in and chanted in reply, “Gulab jamun! Shahi tukda! Vermicelli shrikhand! And of course – _jalebi!_ ” Then he raced past Sebastian into the manor, shouting for Ciel to reveal himself, taking the steps two at a time.

“The prince is as enthusiastic as ever,” Sebastian mused.

Agni had the weary, adoring expression of a mother who’d been kept too busy by her young child and was ready to hand him off to the nursemaids. “Yes… Beg pardon. I hope that Master Ciel is not too busy today. My prince was insistent that he could not wait any longer to visit… I suppose you heard we came to the manor on Easter to discover that Master Ciel was away. I told him we must wait for an invitation before coming back, but…”

There was a sudden cry of distressed annoyance from the upstairs hallway, followed by a deeper one of anguish, which was swiftly abided by the two butlers.

In the study, Sebastian was faced with quite a scene: the open door showed Ciel standing up at his desk with an expression of ghastly disapproval and Soma on the floor, mourning the loss of what looked like globs of bright white porridge. Some of it was on Ciel and some of it was on Soma, but most of it was on the carpet.

Sebastian was completely clueless about what was happening, but Agni seemed to know at once. “Oh, my prince! The curd!” he gasped.

“I forgot I left it in my sash!” Soma sobbed. “And when I gave Ciel a hug, the cloth burst and now it’s all over the place! Waah!”

“What the devil was this disgusting stuff doing in your sash?!” Ciel snapped, wiping at himself with a handkerchief, though it was proving futile. “And what are _you_ even doing here?! Did you show up just to give me a hard time while I’m trying to work? You’re succeeding!”

Soma sprung to his feet and clenched his fists, all traces of his sadness disappearing. “I came here,” the prince declared, “because we are business partners!”

Ciel lowered his eyebrows. “We are no such thing.”

“Well, I did _not_ come here to make your job harder! I have come to _help_ you with your work.” Soma plopped his hands on his hips, closing his eyes with a look of triumph.

“I can scarcely believe that’s possible,” Ciel snarled. He twisted his body to allow Sebastian to tend more efficiently to the bits of curd on his jacket and vest front. “So far all you’ve done is cover me in this… whatever this is, and – look! It splashed on my letter to Mr. Fairclough! I’ve been penning that for the past twenty minutes, damn it!”

Sebastian paused his hand. “You’re writing to Mr. Fairclough, my lord?”

Ciel raised his eyes at him with mild affront. “Is that a problem, butler?”

“Never, sir. Excuse my question.” He finished wiping off the curd, sighing to himself with the realization that only a thorough washing could take care of this, if even. At least the young master would soon be fitted for a whole host of new clothing…

“Listen, listen!” the prince cried, tugging Ciel away by his arm once the clean-up was complete (earning Soma the rebuke, “At least warn me before you’re going to fling me about like a ragdoll!”). “I have been very, very patient all of this week for you to come back from Oxford! I even waited longer than usual, so you would get a chance to catch up with your work! But then I had the most perfect idea, because I know you are looking to sell Indian sweets here in England! Why don’t the two of us eat four of my favorite desserts together today and you can see which ones you like the best? Sebastian can help Agni to make them, so he will know if the process is difficult to replicate on a larger scale. What do you say, Ciel? It is a good idea, isn’t it?”

Sebastian could see in the boy’s relaxing posture that he was in-favor of this almost immediately, but Ciel didn’t let Soma have that victory, however small. Instead he pretended to mull it over before grumbling, “All _right_ , all right, fine. I needed a break anyway.” Soma whooped with joy and threw his hands up in the air while Ciel merely stretched. “Sebastian, I want to change out of this stained thing, and then you and Agni can get to work. I don’t know if we’ll have all the ingredients to accommodate this undertaking, but perhaps it’ll be some approximation, at least.”

“Don’t worry about that!” Soma announced. “Agni and I were sure to bring all the ingredients we’d need. Your markets tend not to have any saffron or cardamom seeds, after all.” A teary look came back over his eyes. “Oh, right. Except… I ruined the curd we’d been hanging overnight… So I don’t know how we’ll make the shrikhand now…”

“Ah! Do not fret, my prince! It was only a mistake! You did not mean to do it!” Agni attempted to encourage, reaching out before him.

“Indeed. And perhaps we can still find some sort of substitute for the curd,” Sebastian said, putting a hand to his chin in gentle thought. “Well then, young master, let’s take care of your wardrobe, shall we?”

Once in the bedroom, Ciel sighed, holding out his arms like a scarecrow to allow his jacket to be removed. “I should have expected that nuisance would come calling on me sooner rather than later. I suppose it can’t be helped. I may as well get it over with.”

“A wise mindset. And I know the young master can become quite patient when there are sweets involved,” Sebastian said with a grin in his voice as he buttoned on the new vest.

Ciel tugged a clean jacket back across his body. “Quiet, you. I’m still annoyed about having to entertain that spoiled princeling for the next few hours. See to it that those desserts are made in good time.”

“Yes, my lord.” Sebastian bowed dutifully, and the two went in their opposite ways.

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The little cart Soma and Agni had brought was loaded with all sorts of things that the Phantomhive pantry was not armed with, so much so that Finny was requested to help unload. The gardener marveled at the satchel of bright orange saffron, cardamom the color of cinnamon, and, heaviest of all, a paper sack of powdered milk and another of flour, white clouds fluffing out to make Finny sneeze. There were also pomegranates, unshelled pistachios, almonds, clarified butter, and yogurt like snow in a metal bowl.

Agni carried the yogurt in both hands into the kitchen. “I am sorry about the mess the curd made before in Master Ciel’s study,” he said, placing the bowl on a countertop and smearing away rain from his forehead. “Prince Soma had been handling it in the carriage to see if he could squeeze out some of the moisture left over through the cheesecloth…  He becomes quite fidgety without something to do with his hands on long rides, you see. I should have reminded him that he put it in his sash before he went running off throughout the manor.”

“Not to worry,” Sebastian assuaged. “It’s nothing Mey-Rin can’t take care of with a little soda water. Besides, this manor has suffered far worse. Isn’t that right, Finny?”

“Huh?” the gardener blinked, white powder still freckling his cheeks as he set down a sack of semolina beside the rest of the ingredients.

“Never you mind. Now, off to the greenhouse,” Sebastian shooed him, then removed his tailcoat and rolled up his sleeves smartly to his elbows. “All right, then, Agni. How shall we begin?”

They started with the vermicelli, cooking the short, thin noodles on the stovetop in butter until they were a golden brown. Condensed milk glued the slender pasta together, and Agni showed Sebastian how to shape the mixture with his thumb to make eighteen small nests (of course, Sebastian mastered the technique on his first try). These were brought to the cool pantry to solidify. Once that was done, the prep work towards the rest of the meals could begin.

Agni spilled the pistachios before him on a chopping block and began to butcher at them with a large knife. “Though coming to the Phantomhive manor today was my prince’s idea, I must admit, I am quite glad that our sudden arrival was accepted. I feel that I learn something new each time that I talk with you, about what it means to be a butler… and lately, there is so much newness to learn.”

“I wouldn’t disagree with you there,” Sebastian sighed, mincing almonds into impossibly even slivers. “My young lord strives to remind me of this fact on the daily.”

“Your wording is all too accurate, Sebastian,” Agni enthused. “Without a doubt, our masters are our greatest teachers. And it is our job to be the greatest pupils.”

“… In a sense, yes,” Sebastian began. “I would not say I consider myself a ‘pupil’ under my lord anymore. Merely that he, so I’ve learned, is at an age where he is very liable to change his mind quickly and to have constantly evolving expectations.”

“Ah, I see.” Agni’s expression became troubled as he sliced open a pomegranate and began to remove the hot red seeds. “Your master is, of course, of a much nobler countenance than I was, in my previous life as a Brahmin. But I do recall being so young, and being very particular, and taking out my feelings on our family’s servants when they did not do exactly as I wanted, or even if they did but I was feeling cruel. I would never insinuate that Master Ciel would have such awful designs, but… I imagine, for him, that he is just as lost and just as wanting to be understood.”

“That is how it is has been summarized to me on a number of occasions, yes,” Sebastian nodded. “I recognize my young master’s need for guidance, but a source is not easily found. Indeed, I was hoping over his Easter holiday that his aunt or uncle might become a designated teacher in the ways of the world, but their certain… _singularities_ appeared to frighten my lord off.” Sebastian poured cream into a bowl and began to mix it with some of the powdered milk. Then a thought occurred to him. “Considering the way you just spoke of your youth, even you could prove a knowledgeable resource to him, should he need it. Of course, I don’t expect you to be constantly at his disposal, but… your influence could prove substantial.”

“Me?” Agni was utterly taken-aback. He paused his hand. “Sebastian… it is a great compliment for you to consider me more experienced in certain territories than yourself… But I must ask: why wouldn’t _you_ become Ciel’s mentor?”

Sebastian began to boil the mixture he’d prepared on the stove top. “I don’t believe it would be appropriate, for a butler to fulfill such a crucial role or speak so frankly with his lord.”

“I must disagree with you there,” Agni said, as he measured out clarified butter, sugar, and milk powder. “Soma has turned to me for advice in a great number of areas, about all things that trouble him. Anything from choosing what to study that day, to what love should mean to him… and each time, these conversations have only strengthened our bond as butler and master. I wouldn’t trade those talks we have for anything in the world. So, no doubt if you had such a conversation with Master Ciel, it would be a moment of great bonding for you too!”

Sebastian wasn’t sure how to tell Agni that he and his young lord _had_ had such talks, but that any ‘bonding’ that came from them left a bitter taste in his mouth and a dread in his core. He shook his head. “My young master does not see me as Prince Soma sees you. It is not a boundary I wish to impede upon.”

“But,” Agni proposed, “what if Master Ciel would like to see you that way? Have you asked him? Since he is changing, why should your relationship not change as well?”

“I have not asked him, no. And I shall wait for him to broach such a topic, as opposed to the other way around.” Sebastian squeezed lemon juice into the milk mixture and whisked away. “Your prince does well to have your guidance. But my lord has not directly asked me to lead him, and so I will not. Now then.” Sebastian poured the white broth into a bowl and moved in the direction of the cool pantry again. “Let us put all our focus into preparing the desserts, shall we?”

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The stove was at its maximum capacity, each burner covered: one by a pot with hot oil, another with a syrup made from sugar, the third containing milk, and the last burner claimed by a kettle for an accompanying Nilgiri tea. Agni began to make a sort of dough out of powdered milk, oil, baking powder, and cardamom, adding water as needed. He didn’t measure any of the ingredients this time, seeming to know instinctively how to make the texture just right. Meanwhile Sebastian worked on the sauce for the shahi tukda, which turned out to be an Indian version of bread pudding. The base for it consisted of boiled milk, condensed milk, and powdered milk – he hoped the excessive dairy wouldn’t give his master a stomachache. Sugar, saffron, and the two types of nuts were used to flavor the sweet gravy.

Agni finished rolling the dough into spheres, the size of small apricots. He gently placed them into the oil, and they began to turn a beautiful golden brown. Then he took the syrup off the flame, and used a frying pan to lightly toast four slices of white bread. Under Agni’s instruction, Sebastian made batter for the jalebi from flour, yogurt, cardamom powder, and clarified butter. He filled a piping bag with the mixture while Agni fished the balls of gulab jamun out of the oil with a slotted spoon and into the sugar syrup to soak. Once the bread was toasted and the hot oil available, Sebastian poured some of it into the empty pan and began to fry the jalebi, squeezing it out of the tube into tight spirals.

Agni chuckled a bit. “The shape is so perfect. That does not look like any jalebi I have ever seen.”

In short order, the spirals went into their own bath of sugar syrup. “This isn't terribly difficult to make,” Sebastian noted. “If my young master enjoys this, I shall fix it for him more often.”

“Oh! I hope that he does!” Agni beamed. “I know he is probably not used to many of these flavors, but you should have seen how delighted my prince was when he found out Master Ciel wanted to sell Indian desserts. Prince Soma has very much enjoyed learning about English culture. I know that sharing his heritage in return has been very rewarding for him.” Agni clasped his hands together, suddenly tearing up with joy. “My prince has made his first diplomatic relationship! What a beautiful adult he is becoming!”

Suddenly there was the sound of fast feet and laughter crashing down the hall off the kitchen. Agni and Sebastian turned around to see Soma race in. Above his huge grin, he was wearing an eye patch. Sebastian stiffened; had he actually taken Ciel’s eye patch away from him? But the prince was only playful, not mean. Ciel stormed in a moment later, his own patch still adorned.

“Agni, protect me!” Soma shouted with glee, dashing behind his butler with arms outstretched. “I’ve made Ciel mad!”

“Ah! Prince Soma, please be careful! There is hot oil here!”

“You’d know if I was mad. I just want you to take it off already,” Ciel huffed, folding his arms and tapping his foot, like a tiger with its tail aflick. “That touches my face, you know. It feels weird to have you wearing it.”

“So this is what it’s like to be Ciel Phantomhive,” Soma giggled. “Though I suppose I should bend down a bit more if I'm really going to be you… There we go! Now I can see what you can see!”

Ciel was annoyed. “Oh, what a hilarious little game. And don’t I wish I had the luxury of _pretending_ I only had one eye.”

Sebastian knew that his master felt relatively indifferent (he was, of course, not actually lacking the eye), but Soma was immediately apologetic. “Ah! I’m sorry, Ciel! I wasn’t trying to be heartless! I just wanted to understand what it is like to be my very best friend in all of England!” Soma jogged out from behind Agni and accidentally hit the kitchen table with his knee. “Ow! Ow, ow, ow!”

“Ah, Prince, you must be careful!” Agni repeated.

Ciel held out his hand. “Serves you right. Now take that thing off already and give it back.”

Soma rubbed his knee while Agni worked at the patch’s tight knot. “It is so much harder to tell where things are with only half of my vision! How do you do it, Ciel? I have never seen you walk into anything at all.”

“It isn’t hard once you get used to it,” the earl snorted. “You just have to be more aware of your surroundings if you’re in a new place.”

Sebastian smiled to himself. He remembered the early days, before Ciel had become adept at navigating with monocular vision. The boy had already been so fragile then, too. He’d had to learn a whole new set of visual cues so he could sit down without stubbing his toe on the leg of a chair or table, turn a corner without his shoulder clipping it. It was far from the hardest task Ciel had faced when practicing to become Earl Phantomhive. It still didn’t help that during his first week back in the manor, he was adding new bruises on top of his old ones.

“Are you almost done with the desserts already?” Ciel turned to Sebastian to ask.

“Indeed, sir.” Sebastian bowed a fraction. “A quarter of an hour more and it will be ready to serve.”

Agni finished untying the knot and immediately gasped. “Oh! Sebastian! I completely forgot to make a replacement for the curd! What are we going to do about the shrikhand?”

“Don’t worry.” Sebastian pointed to the door of the cool pantry. “The mascarpone I prepared while we were talking earlier should have drained enough to suffice.”

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“I’m so full, I can’t move,” Ciel said (a statement he hadn’t made in ages), leaning back in his armchair with a hand over his stomach. “I didn’t expect to fill up so fast…”

Soma selected another orange curl of jalebi and snapped it up. “Yes, it is very filling, all milk and bread and sugar! And that is why it is so delicious!”

“I don’t even want to think about food anymore.” Ciel closed his eyes. “Sebastian, remind me to ask you about how the preparation went later. I can’t do it right now.”

“Aww! I cannot even ask you about which one your favorite was?” Soma whined.

Ciel conceded that much. “I liked the ones that looked like little nests. If it’s not chocolate, my next favorite dessert will always be fruit.”

“The vermicelli shrikhand was good, but it would have tasted better with curd instead of mascarpone,” Soma whined. “I wish I hadn’t dropped it! Shrikhand made authentically is the best!”

“That is the only dessert I feel would be difficult to mass-produce,” Sebastian interjected. “The other three should be possible to replicate en masse… though the expense of saffron might add up.”

Ciel waved his hand. “No more talking about food from here out. I mean it.”

Soma changed the subject with ease. “Oh, that’s right, Ciel! I needed to tell you that I received an invitation to the Royal Ascot from the Queen a few days ago! This will be my first year attending, and I am so excited to go! You received one too, yes?”

“First of all, it’s pronounced ‘Asket,’” Ciel grumbled drowsily, “and yes, of course I did. The Phantomhives have been in attendance long before I was born.”

“Horses are far less interesting and less beautiful than elephants,” Soma said, “but they can go faster than elephants. I’ll give you Englanders that much.”

“It isn’t as if India doesn’t use horses too.”

“And camels,” Soma nodded, “but the elephants are my favorite. If only we had an Ascot for elephants, but I think that would be far too dangerous. But it sure would be funny!”

“I told you already, it’s pronounced ‘Asket.’”

“Oh, As _kaht_ , As _ket_ , does it really matter as long as you know what I am saying?”

“Well if you misname it on race day, no one is going to be able to take you seriously.”

“All that matters is that Ciel takes me seriously!”

“I take you less seriously than anyone else on the whole bloody planet!”

After another half hour of this banter, the sky began to darken, and Soma and Agni said their goodbyes. Finny was tasked again to help them pack up their ingredients. While the servants loaded the cart, Soma made Ciel similarly promise to see him again before April was over, perhaps once the weather improved, if it improved. Then the carriage went off into the spring dusk and the house was quiet again.

“Hopefully that should satisfy him for the next few weeks,” Ciel sighed, pacing back up the front steps with Sebastian behind him. “What a disruptive afternoon… and I still feel stuffed.”

“Perhaps a light dinner, later in the evening, will suffice tonight?” Sebastian offered.

“Yes. That’ll do.” Ciel walked back in the direction of his office, Sebastian joining him momentarily to clear away the dessert platters. The boy plopped down at his desk, made a small noise of disappointment when he remembered Soma had ruined his letter, and set down a new piece of parchment to copy it over.

Sebastian knew the contents of the letter were none of his business. But a sort of curiosity came over him when he remembered how well the boy had gotten along with Fairclough. Perhaps it had all been a show to get away from his uncle but… Ciel _had_ had a long conversation with Fairclough at the cricket match. The boy rarely subjected himself to long conversations, unless propriety demanded it, sometimes not even then. Ciel had also felt comfortable enough to tell Fairclough about the incident at the Goode’s party, too, despite having met in-person for the first time that very night. A certain level of trust had already been built, even after only two meetings. Perhaps… Perhaps the very mentor that Sebastian sought out for Ciel could be found in this mysterious, wealthy gentleman?

If Ciel invited Fairclough to the manor, Sebastian would see how the two interacted further. With guaranteed visits from Soma and Nina again, as well, it was certain to be a very busy month. The social season was upon them. Invitations from dukes and marquesses, viscounts and barons, would start pouring in, as they always did. During the height of the season, one day might include a recital in the morning, a tea in the afternoon, and a banquet at night. Ciel had a rule that he would only attend one masquerade per season (at Lizzie’s prodding), and tended to go to as many private concerts and poetry readings as he was invited to - not because he liked them, but because it meant he didn’t have to talk very much yet could still keep up appearances. Of course, there would be balls and dances too… and those were Ciel’s least favorite of all.

Sebastian, though more tolerable, didn’t much like this time of year either, unless he was in charge of planning the event himself. And who knew how moody Ciel would become with such a full schedule? As his little lord became a less-little lord, so he too became less predictable. Sebastian did not want to endure another candid conversation with his master. The ‘beast of sympathy’ inside the demon had finally quieted, and he had no plans to wake it from its slumber.

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One week later, Sebastian’s prayers, if one could call them that, were answered. Another letter imbued with the royal seal came in the post. Sebastian knew by the stateliness of the deliveryman that this was no mere invitation to the grandest horse race in Europe. The wax was stickily soft; the address was a terse scrawl. A hasty hand had prepared this letter and hastier traffic had brought it to their doorstep.

Sebastian’s mouth curved up in a wicked little grin. Ciel’s social calendar would be wiped clean at once. This was no time for play. The Queen’s watchdog had been summoned to the hunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ※ Forfeits is kind of like truth or dare, but there's only dares. Everyone gives up an item of moderate importance to the "judge." The judge then decides what task the player must perform in order to win their item back. Usually the things you have to do to get your item back are somewhat embarrassing (dancing or imitating an animal or doing a tongue twister), so Ciel was really not interested in playing.
> 
> ⸸ Similarly to the egg hunt, with lookabouts, one person hides a small object in a room while the others search. But instead of taking it when it's found, the players sit down until the others see it. Probably not very much fun with only three people!
> 
> I hope it was okay that I didn't describe the Indian desserts down here - there would be too much to go into. I think in this case, a picture is worth a thousand words anyway.
> 
> And with that - we have a big arc coming up! I anticipate it taking at least four chapters to accomplish. I actually think I could have had this current chapter written even faster, if I hadn't been so busy daydreaming about what the Queen has planned for Ciel. I hope what I came up with manages to hold everybody's interest! See you in three weeks!


	10. The Heft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuing with shepherd terms, the heft is an area of land a ram might instinctively stake out or recognize as their own territory, something often taught by the parent.

As it happened, the Queen had sent not one letter but two. Ciel finished the first within a minute before thumbing over to the next. He read the second message diligently, carefully, and his expression held more irritation than disapproval when he mumbled under his breath, “Human trafficking again.” Sebastian stood by patiently for the full explanation. The boy read the letter through twice, slouching down in his chair and rolling his head across its cushioned backing, as if a different angle of his chin would give him a different angle on the matter too.

Finally Ciel folded the papers and tucked them inside his jacket. “We should get to work immediately. I need to change into travel clothes.”

Sebastian kept pace with his charge as they walked out of the study and into the direction of his bedroom. “How far will we be traveling, my lord? Should I prepare for a day trip?”

Ciel’s cane tapped the carpet rhythmically. “No. Today we’re only going to the outskirts of Surrey, at the farthest, and then back into London. But from there on, who knows? I can’t yet tell how much of a wild goose chase we’re going to be sent on.”

The rest of the walk to the bedroom was contemplatively silent. Ciel would not discuss the content of the letters until they were in private, it seemed. Sebastian closed the door to the dressing room softly once they arrived. “I suppose you won’t keep me in the dark any longer, my lord?”

Ciel began to remove his jacket and the letters from within it while Sebastian selected a sturdier outfit from his wardrobe. “An hour ago, when the Queen’s initial letter was sent, I was to apprehend a Mr. Algernon Northcott, who’d been discovered to be smuggling Middle Eastern children into the country through his shipping business.”

“Children, hm?” Sebastian removed Ciel’s vest and replaced it with a heartier one of brown tweed. “So this isn’t just a repeat case of human trafficking but specifically the trafficking of young victims.”

Ciel climbed out of and into another set of proffered trousers. “But apprehending him is no longer possible, because Northcott has been murdered. He was discovered dead in his own stables just this morning when the police came looking for him. Hence the shorter letter, updating me on the matter – and, seeing as dead men tell no tales, we’ll have to discern what we can from the living.” Ciel paused for a moment as Sebastian fastened his trousers. “I have little doubt that Northcott’s reveal as a human trafficker is linked to the murder,” he continued, in a voice suddenly strained. “Someone knew that they could be tracked through him… which makes me think Northcott is merely a pawn in a much larger game.”

“A detail that I’m certain surprises you in the least,” Sebastian said, threading his lord’s arms through a matching brown Inverness coat. “Well, well, a murder in the morning, and that’s only for starters… It seems the quiet of London’s boroughs has finally been disturbed. No doubt the flies will be swarming.”

Ciel made a soft hiss of disapproval between his teeth as Sebastian worked at the coat’s buttons. “Don’t be daft. Surely someone’s moved the body by now.”

Sebastian leaned back to survey his work. “Not bottle flies, my lord. Scotland Yard.”

A sigh. “That lot… Let’s hope they haven’t sullied my investigation too much. They’re just fine for handling the day-to-day cases, but you can’t trust them with anything grander in scope than Fagin’s band of pickpockets.※”

Sebastian handed Ciel back his cane. “Then I suppose we should arrive before much more damage can be done to _your_ investigation, hm?”

“Yes. Get the carriage ready straight away.” A single step forward, and then Ciel froze, his entire body going oddly rigid. “Oof…!”

Sebastian whirled back in concern. “My lord…?”

Ciel was wide-eyed. “Damn it, I can’t even bend my knees! These trousers are way too tight, I’ve outgrown them! _Don’t just stand there laughing, you idiot, get me new ones!_ ”

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By eleven o’clock, they had arrived in Surrey’s Merton borough and Northcott’s estate, a boxy gray building with black shutters and little to boast about, other than size. Willow trees fenced the territory in a perfect rectangle, and Sebastian imagined it was a relatively quiet haven when a murder hadn’t just been committed. As it was, uniformed staff and Scotland Yard alike dominated the grounds, and there was an especial crowd around the stables behind the house. The only benefit to the populous was that Ciel and Sebastian were relatively unnoticed in adding to it.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing here?!”

Relatively – the accusatory eyes of Scotland Yard’s police commissioner would never miss the entry of his arch nemeses.

“Well, well, Lord Randall,” Ciel said snidely as they approached him outside the stables, “are you asking me to enlighten you on the very crime that has taken place here?”

Randall ground his teeth, peering down at the boy angrily. “When are we going to be rid of your meddling ? Shouldn’t little aristocrats your age be off in school?”

“Perhaps the normal ones. I personally prefer discovering history over studying it. Let’s get to work, Sebastian.” Ciel made to go into the outbuilding, but Randall took a step in front of him.

“Scotland Yard has this under control,” he snarled. “You might be here on the Queen’s orders, but so are we. Don’t you dare make a mess of our investigation.”

“ _Your_ investigation?” Ciel laughed twice. “Oh, do excuse me for not realizing justice belonged solely to the Yard. I’m sure you’ll have this one swiftly in the bag, just as you had Jack the Ripper.”

“Old wounds!” Randall barked. “We acknowledge our missteps, and we learn from them. Our methods and manpower only continue to improve. We’re leaving no stone unturned. My men are in the process of gathering alibis from the Northcott staff. These interviews aren’t something you’re privy to – I won’t have you ripping documents out of Abberline’s hands again and memorizing them.”

“That’s fine. I don’t need your interviews. None of the staff did it anyway,” Ciel dismissed. Sebastian had to smirk: it was much more entertaining to observe this adolescent bluntness than it was to be on the opposite end of it.

“You don’t know _that_ much, insolent brat!” Randall fumed.

“What could their motive possibly be?” Ciel scoffed. He was very much in his element. “Until I see proof that Northcott was poor at handling his finances or had an otherwise contemptuous attitude towards his staff, gathering alibis is meaningless. You’re wasting your time scolding the dogs while the fox runs off with the hen in its teeth. Because Northcott’s murder is most likely linked to his recently-discovered malpractice, that is the lead I intend to follow. Now, do let me at the scene of the crime so I can conduct a real investigation.”

“Hold on a damn second!” Still Randall refused to budge. “I’ll tell you this much, since you would have found out sooner or later anyhow: the way that Northcott died was by being crushed to death by an old racing horse he kept. Someone must have trapped him in the stall with the animal. It is mad and volatile. We are waiting for a horse doctor to properly secure the beast, identify it, and remove it from the premises.”

Ciel drew back a bit. “Do you mean to tell me the body is still in there?”

“No,” Randall said, quick to confirm his own team’s diligence. “We managed to restrain the beast long enough to drag out the corpse – what we could of the corpse. But I’m not so foolish as to handle a berserk animal, let alone one that has already committed murder. So we’re leaving it until it calms down enough for the doctor to lead it away.”

“So you believe trampling was the cause of death?” Ciel mused. “That nobody would have heard the sounds of a struggle, if he were on-site? That maybe Northcott was attacked away from home, and the horse was employed so as to cover up the evidence of what _really_ killed him?”

Randall leaned down to glare with his cinched eyes into Ciel’s own. “I don’t claim to assume anything yet,” he spoke roughly. “Which is _why_ we are _gathering_ **_alibis_**.”

“All right, all right,” Ciel said airily, turning on his heel and walking a short way off. “We won’t go in yet. But we are going be waiting nearby for our own chance at the scene. Let’s go, Sebastian.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hmph! Well, let that be a reminder that you can’t just go traipsing in anywhere you please!” Randall shouted at Ciel’s back, but the boy was far from caring.

They walked the sharp-cut perimeter of willows until they were out of easy earshot from Scotland Yard and the Northcott Staff, a three-minute stroll during which the veterinarian arrived and made his way into the stables. Butler and master trained their sights on the outbuilding as they conversed. “My lord, what do you propose we do next?”

“After the horse doctor does his work, we’ll see what information we can gather from the crime scene, and then go to London proper.” Ciel removed the Queen’s letter from the inside of his coat. “The nine children they recovered from Northcott’s most recent voyage are currently being kept at the Orphanage Infirmary in the borough of Southwark. I doubt they speak any English, so you can figure out what language they _do_ speak and ask them if they know anything about why they were brought to England. I also want to go to the London piers to account for Northcott’s ship, trade route, and which stevedores and dockers were assigned to his vessel. We need to find out how many trips he’s taken and where he’s been since his shipping business began… that might give us some guess at how long he’s been smuggling in human beings before he was finally caught. After that… we’ll go to Undertaker for the autopsy report. He should have information for us by then.”

“I recommend that I go to the orphanage alone,” Sebastian offered. “We don’t know what condition the children were in when they arrived in the country. If they have tuberculosis or pneumonia, I would not want you to become susceptible.”

Ciel gave a single nod. “Fine. I’d rather not wander around the docks on my own for long, though, so don’t take your time getting back to me.”

“On your own, my lord? I would never suggest that you do such,” Sebastian said. “I assumed that you would be much happier having lunch at the Criterion while I visit the orphanage.”

The boy glowered up at him. “I’d be happier smacking you in the head with my cane right now, too, but you don’t see me doing that either. Don’t patronize me, Sebastian. If the Queen sends me on an errand, I intend to be working, not milling about eating calves’ brains.”

Sebastian opened his mouth to make a retort about Ciel’s onset of sloth just last March, but instead found himself saying, “It seems as if you anticipate danger, young master.”

“I anticipate petty thieves and inebriated sailors. Things I may be able to solve with the glint of a pistol, but I’d prefer not to have to deal with at all.”

“And yet you choose that over a relaxing lunch…” Sebastian sighed, and then felt a bit silly for saying so, especially after Ciel shot him a rather sharp side-glance. He rephrased his statement, as much for his own sake as for the sake of clarity. “It intrigues me that you would prefer to wait for my protection and yet you forego it. Is my lord in so much of a hurry to solve this case that he would put himself in the way of ruffians?”

“You can’t complete a puzzle with half the pieces,” Ciel sniffed. “It’s too early to take a break, I’ve barely begun. I’d have nothing to mull over while I ate. A relaxing lunch? It couldn’t be, not with so little known and so many questions unasked.”

Sebastian smiled, barely. “Well then, my lord, I won’t trouble your decisions further.”

“You shouldn’t be troubling them in the first–”

Their attention was then seized by a bevy of new arrivals, walking up the pebbled drive of Northcott’s estate. Even from this distance, human eyes could recognize the tallest figure: a nun, thin and fully habited, flanked by a cluster of children in ebony. The group of them stood before the house in a line and, at the nun’s demonstration, pressed their palms together and bowed their heads to pray. The Northcott staff that were scattered outdoors stared at them, none of them seeming to know why this makeshift cloister was here.

Ciel took a step towards them with intrigue. “Now this is the sort of detail that deserves my consideration. Let’s go over to them before Scotland Yard can realize what a real opportunity for answers looks like.”

Sebastian and his charge finished approaching the little group just as they finished their prayer. “My regrets, sister, but you’ve chosen a poor day to come collecting alms,” Ciel announced when the nun opened her eyes. “The keeper of this manor has been murdered just this morning. I’m afraid his earnings are no longer his own to give.”

The nun did not seem to pick up on Ciel’s jocular tone. “Would you happen to be a relative of Mr. Northcott’s, young one?” she asked, in a voice as wholesome and crystal-clear as her duty to the Lord. “I am ever so sorry for your loss. For all our losses.”

Ciel shook his head. “My only relation to the departed is as his investigator.”

The abbess put a hand to her mouth. “You are an investigator? At your age? I did not realize that child labor had expanded into police work… This breaks my heart. God has a better plan for you, young one, and it will come yet.”

“… This isn’t child labor, I’m fourteen,” Ciel said, with such flat constraint that Sebastian’s mouth tightened with clenched laughter. “And I don’t work with the police or Scotland Yard. I’m here–”

“The National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children will soon be founded, thanks to Thomas Agnew,” the nun continued. “Then you will no longer have to work for a living. Be patient and keep saying your prayers, and all will be well.”

“…” Ciel looked temporarily livid, but clenched his teeth and forced his mouth into a grimace. “Thank… you. How… comforting. But for now my work continues, and so I hope you will not mind if I ask what your own purpose for coming to the Northcott manor is today?”

“We are here to pay our respects to Mr. Northcott,” the nun explained, “who was, in every way to us, our friend. Wasn’t he, children?” A few of the little ones behind her nodded, though most were staring at the manor with a dull sort of awe. They were clearly orphans, none older than ten and all looked after by this generous sister. From the way they gazed at the house, it was clear they were equally intrigued and dissuaded by this luxury, because they knew such could never be theirs. The nun kept speaking. “Mr. Northcott was a very private man, but donated food and money to us regularly. He was very humble and asked that his donations be kept anonymous. But now that he has passed, I see no reason for his good deeds to be hidden from the world. God rest his poor soul, and may we pray that he felt no pain in his darkest hour.”

Ciel had developed a natural avoidance of the devout, but he seemed to sense what Sebastian had immediately picked up on: that this woman was steadfast in her faith. She also seemed honest in her generosity, as a mop-headed toddler began to whine and she immediately went to soothe him, picking him up and rubbing his shoulder through the black fabric of his hand-me-down dress shirt. “I’m very sorry, but you must excuse us now,” she said, as Ciel opened his mouth again to speak. “We’ve come from Westminster on a coal delivery wagon, and the driver said he wouldn’t wait for us if we missed his return route. But we had to do something to show our appreciation.” There were tears budding in her short-lashed eyes. “Children, keep Mr. Northcott forever in your hearts. He was a dear, dear soul.”

“Your orphanage is located in Westminster, is it?” Ciel said before she could turn to leave. “What is the name of it? I would like to pay you a visit tomorrow.”

The nun’s eyes were still wet but she brightened suddenly. “I would be more than happy to accommodate you, young one. There would be a bed and food for you there, so you wouldn’t have to work anymore to–”

“It’s to ask you more questions about Northcott!” Ciel huffed, blushing, while Sebastian again choked back amusement. “Now what is your orphanage called?!”

 “The Sacred Heart Orphanage of Westminster Abbey” turned out to be the answer, an orphanage that Ciel had in fact donated to using the proceeds from his display auctions. Though Ciel only gave to reputable organizations that put the wellbeing of the children and disabled first, he did not intimately acquaint himself with any of their occupants, as it seemed Mr. Northcott had. “A human trafficker who is secretly altruistic.” Ciel watched the nun and her brood walk down the drive and out of sight. “Well… that certainly is a curiosity.”

Sebastian dipped his chin. “His motivations are rather contradictory.”

“I want to find out more about what Northcott donated, specifically,” Ciel said. “If he ever gave clothing, for instance… Items he could have taken away from the abducted and given to the orphanage as a means of discarding evidence. Though Middle Eastern clothing would rather stand out…”

There was little time to ponder that further as the veterinarian emerged from the stables, leading the quarter horse with a rope around its neck – evidently putting a bit in its mouth was not currently advisable. The horse had also been blinded with a rag around its eyes, yet its brown flank still shivered with want to bolt and froth remained at the corners of its lips. The doctor led the animal away from the brunt of the crowd, warning “not to come too close – he has been sedated with an opiate, but he’s still very skittish.” Ciel eyed the sleek, petrified, supposed murderer, hand on his hip.

“Since I have no desire to see bloody bits of person scattered about the hay,” he began, “you go investigate the crime scene while I ask the doctor about what he thinks of the horse’s guilty sentencing.”

“Sir.” Sebastian bowed and went to take a look. For him, seeing a live person or dead corpse garnered nearly identical emotions, unless that person happened to be his contracted.

Northcott was no exception. There was, in fact, less gore than Sebastian had anticipated, though still a fair bit of blood had spilled. Scotland Yard eyed Sebastian as they went about their work, but they did not speak to him. Sebastian needed no more than his senses to gather what forensics would for them. He breathed in the air: hinted with blood, nine hours old, blood belonging to a man in his forties with no major health issues. He saw the flesh and sinew that had been ground into the cobbled floor with intense, consistent force.

But what was this? The scent of blood did not just linger by the stall, but on two paths leading to the stall as well. So Northcott had been presented to the horse already bleeding, if not already dead. This was further proof in favor of Ciel’s hypothesis: that the trampling of the horse hid the marks of the true murder weapon, rather than being the actual cause of death. Unfortunately, Scotland Yard and Northcott’s staff had muddied the air with their human smells, and it was impossible to tell the characteristics of the person who had delivered the man to his fate. With that gathered, Sebastian left.

Ciel was standing a fair distance from the doctor and his patient, cautious of the horse’s unpredictable nature. As Sebastian approached, he heard the veterinarian say, “Well, I don’t know, but I’d say it’s unlikely at this point. It’s not something I have the time for… and not something I can imagine anyone else having the patience for.”

“… No, I imagine not,” Ciel said, and looked over his shoulder briefly as Sebastian stopped behind him. “Well, I’m going to be in touch with Northcott’s lawyer and clerk. I would pay you handsomely, if you would be so kind as to tend to the horse until it’s confirmed that Northcott was crushed to death.”

The doctor nodded but looked puzzled. “Sure, if it matters so much, I’ll keep the gelding in my stable for a few days… But whether or not it’s guilty, it’s as I just told you. He’ll be sent off to the knackery; horses like him ain’t much good anymore after they’ve been spooked and riled up like this one has, and nobody’s going to want him.” As if to further prove its wildness, the horse suddenly thrashed on its rope lead and gave a screaming whinny.

“Yes, I understand,” Ciel half-barked, though whether in frustration at the doctor or surprise at the horse’s loud retaliation, Sebastian couldn’t be sure. “I’ll be by in a few days to give you word… Until then, I’ll let you take him before the sedative wears off. Let’s go, Sebastian. We still have a lot of ground to cover this afternoon.”

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It was two o’clock when Sebastian exited the Orphanage Infirmary and hailed a cab to meet Ciel at the docks. He told the driver to wait while he fetched his master, following the pulse of Ciel’s soul to the outside of a pub, likely a friendlier place at this hour of the day than the evening. Ciel himself was not looking friendly, arms folded as he leaned against the wall, bearing a sour, impatient scowl.

“I hope you didn’t get into any trouble with the local riffraff, my lord,” Sebastian said by way of greeting.

Ciel snorted, walking over and allowing Sebastian to lead him to the carriage around the corner. “I almost would have preferred that. It was the Docker’s Union that gave me trouble, damn it. They refused to supply any information on who worked Northcott’s ship. The strike last year has made them feel apt to protect their members’ privacy, even if their members might have assisted a _trafficking ring_ apparently. And you remember, too, how the gentry were commending the union for their peaceful protests, including myself… See if I ever speak well of that lot again… What a nuisance…”

Sebastian held open the door of the cab once they arrived and climbed in after him. “So then,” Ciel began with a sigh, as the carriage tottered off in the direction of Undertaker’s mortuary, “please tell me that what you learned from the children was actually useful.”

“I’ll see what you can make of it, my lord,” Sebastian said. “For starters, seven of the boys spoke Persian – two spoke Kurdish and told me they were brothers.”

Ciel already stopped him there. “All of the children were boys?”

“Yes. And all of them had been sold by their parents into servitude to work as camel jockeys in Dubai. They had grown too old for it, however, despite that not one was more than nine years. Apparently many child slaves begin their career in camel jockeying at the age of two – living for seven more years with such a profession and such fragile bones is rather impressive.”

Ciel sniffed, waspish. “Get on with it, now. What else did you learn?”

“They did not know why they had been sent to England,” he continued. “They did not even know where they were going until they were taken to Egypt’s ports to be sold. They had never been on a ship before and were frightened, but said they were swiftly used to it. Aboard the ship, they were treated more kindly than they had been as jockeys. Though no one could speak to them, they were fed and allowed to move around the deck where they pleased, given they didn’t cause any trouble. When they eventually arrived in London, it was nighttime, and they were being shepherded off of the ship into a wagon. The police stopped the wagon not long after and evacuated it, arresting the driver. The children thought they were under arrest as well at the time. Until I arrived, I still don’t think they really had any idea what was happening.”

Ciel propped his elbow on a knee and leaned his chin on his wrist, thoughtful. “Northcott’s treatment of children continues to perplex me,” he said at last. “It’s expensive to transport live cargo overseas. If he merely dealt in general trafficking, there would be no reason to go outside of Europe for victims… Which naturally means it had to do with these children in particular, their expertise.” Ciel leaned back again. “They were young and lightweight, they had a history of jockeying… it sounds to me like the dealings of an illegal racetrack, especially when you consider Northcott’s so-called murderer. But it’s hard to imagine an illegal racetrack going to such great lengths to acquire this ‘perfect jockey.’ The dangers of it attracting attention to their cartel are too great – they’ve already made that mistake, if a racetrack is indeed at the center of all this.”

Sebastian bowed his chin in agreement. “Our opportunity for further answers shall arrive shortly. Thus, while we wait, my lord–” Sebastian made a small show of revealing an orange from the inside of his jacket “–how about a sweet snack to drive away hunger and a peel to drive away the smells of the mortuary?”

Another ten minutes later and they had arrived at the funeral parlor, a building with about as much charm as a shrunken head. When Sebastian tipped the driver and told him he need not wait up, the man muttered, “Thank God for that… I ain’t hangin’ around here one more second.” Though the appearance of the mortuary was hardly appealing, the aforementioned scent of the place was even more unsettling. It was a strange cornucopia that seemed to work its way into the human psyche: a mix of incense, salt, formaldehyde, and sawdust. Heady yet fragrant, lingering here too long often gave Ciel a headache. Before they went inside, Sebastian observed Ciel rubbing the orange peel between gloved fingertips and pressing it to the base of his nose before tucking it away in his pocket.

And then, as they entered, they were made quickly aware that they weren’t the only ones here on business.

“Wha-? You?” Ciel cried at the redheaded inspector, who was propped on all fours in the center of the cold stone floor. “Just what the devil are you doing?!”

“Wouldn’t I like to know,” Fred Abberline choked back, blushing profusely. “I’m trying to be funny, that’s what the devil I’m doing!”

Ah yes, the Undertaker’s fee: a laugh, or rather a fit of them, as the Undertaker always seemed to be laughing by nature, knitting such sounds of glee into his speech patterns. Sebastian had little difficulty finding the right words or actions to pay the toll, but it didn’t go without saying that Undertaker had a particular sense of humor. Abberline seemed to be attempting a sort of visual gag. Sebastian wasn’t sure what was supposed to be humorous about a man with both shoes tied around his ears, posed like a beast of burden, and he didn’t really want to know either.

Undertaker did not seem amused by this display himself. He was leaning one elbow on the lid of the coffin he was sprawled behind, using it as most would use a desk. He cupped his cheek in one hand, bored, though his mouth was curved up like a crescent moon at the sight of Ciel.

“Well, well, look who it is. Little Lord Phantomhive,” Undertaker greeted. “It’s been some months since I last saw you… I was beginning to wonder if your next visit would be for a coffin. But you’re going to be too big for the one I’ve crafted at this rate… I’ll have to start over, hehe.”

“Hilarious,” Ciel growled. “If you can just make yourself laugh, I don’t know what you need him for.”

Abberline sulkily put his shoes back on his feet where they belonged. “Don’t say it so dismissively… I’ve been trying to get a laugh out of him for over an hour now!”

Undertaker snickered, hiss-like. “Come now, if you aren’t going to be funny, then I’m not going to laugh, I think that’s fair. But your honest nature did make me feel almost sorry enough to pretend.”

“Ugh! Oh, I give up!” Abberline hung his head, then appealed to Ciel. “Earl, let’s work together on this, all right? Clearly you know him better than I do, and no doubt you’re here for the same reason I am. If you can get him to tell us about Northcott’s cause of death, I’ll let you take a look at the case file I have on-hand. Is it a deal?”

Things weighed in the boy’s favor here, and Ciel agreed to the exchange. “Sebastian, I’ll leave this to you. I’ve had to put my mind to enough today.”

“Yes, my lord.” Sebastian took a step forward and opened his mouth, sure whatever dirty limerick or double entendre he chose from his thousand-year arsenal would do the trick here. But Undertaker surprised him with other ideas.

“I think,” he mused, putting his sleeve-covered hands together, “that the butler has something he’d like to tell me in private.”

“In private?” Ciel repeated, and glared at Sebastian. “Is that true?”

Sebastian narrowed his eyes. “… Evidently.”

Ciel’s gaze stayed on Sebastian for a few seconds more before drifting back to Undertaker. “I don’t like the sound of that one bit… The idea of you two degenerates swapping secrets without me present seems like a formula for disaster.”

Abberline was thrown-off. “You consider your butler a degenerate…?”

“Of the cheekiest variety,” Ciel growled, making Sebastian smirk primly. A thoughtful moment, and he asked, “But whatever it is he tells you, that will be enough to give us the details on Northcott?”

Undertaker nodded, that knowing grin never leaving his face.

“… Is this secret about me?” the boy asked then, immediately haughty. “I’m not going to let you gossip about me once I’m out of the room. True or false, I don’t care. I won’t have it.”

“How interesting that you’d think so, Earl,” Undertaker’s words followed him to the exit. “Must it always be about you? Hmm… Maybe so, maybe so. Be patient now and wait for your answers outside, like the good guard dog you are.”

“Nothing about me. That’s an order,” was Ciel’s final warning. Then the heavy black door shut, leaving Undertaker and Sebastian in silence.

“My, my. Looks as though somebody is _changing_ ,” the playful voice began. “Resembling Vincent more and more, but terribly confused about who he could become… Frightened, even, of who he could become. Behaving in ways he never has before. Forces beyond his understanding turning him into something new… and struggling to understand why.”

The Undertaker strode to the other side of the coffin and sat upon it, crossing one leg over the other.

“Could I be talking about the Earl,” he whispered, “or _you_ , butler?”

Sebastian’s face flinched in surprise. Otherwise he stood unmoving, waiting for further explanation. What did the Undertaker know about his emerging sympathy over the past few months, and how? He wouldn’t simply reveal his fears to a man whose intentions were always in-question. Better to see what Undertaker knew from mere observation.

“You are not the same as the last time I saw you,” Undertaker went on. “Don’t look so shocked at my saying so – I have always been attuned to such things. Particularly those in the realm of the odd, and you, my friend, are most certainly an oddity. Do I know what you are, you might wonder? That I would never guess at, lest you consider it grounds to kill me… What I will say is this: you are at risk of becoming an entirely different entity.”

The Undertaker was right about one thing: Sebastian did feel the urge to kill him, but mostly because of how uncommonly vulnerable he felt in this moment, and how angry that made him. The Undertaker himself… Sebastian had often doubted his species in return – the world was populated with numerous immortals masquerading as humans for their own pleasure.

“What is it that you assume makes me ‘at-risk’ of transformation, exactly?” Sebastian began tentatively.

Undertaker smiled wider. “I think you know that better than I do, hmm?”

He did. Sebastian opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again. He was bound to his master’s order. He could not talk about Ciel right now.

Undertaker caught on to that. “Perhaps it has to do with the company you keep,” he offered. “Company that you will not or cannot leave, I wager.”

“You said that I had something to tell you,” Sebastian pressed on, “but it seems rather you had something to tell me. Is that so?”

“Just looking out for you, butler. You should be grateful for my insight.” The Undertaker spread out his arms in a shrug. “Your change in aura has me very curious. You’ve been an unwavering flame since the moment we met years ago. And now… that flame is growing inside of your rich black energy. Can you blame my inquisition?” He chuckled three more hisses. “And I suppose you’re wondering what I meant by saying you were ‘more like Vincent’… Well, that would be in your affection for the boy. Wouldn’t it? When the Earl speaks, that flame in you flickers…”

“What is your intention of telling me all this?” Sebastian said thinly.

“Because I want to study you, of course,” Undertaker proposed. “I want to see what other changes you go through, and why that might be, and why now… Why now, of all times, after going years unaffected… You’d like to know, wouldn’t you? I would.”

Sebastian made no movement. To admit his interest would be to expose his underbelly to a dubious ally.

“Do with my invitation as you wish,” Undertaker said at last, rhythmically tapping his cheek with long fingernails. “I’ll leave it up to you, whether or not you visit again, on your own time… But if you choose to keep me informed of what changes you go through, I will endeavor to come up with a cure… Because it frightens you to change, doesn’t it? It would frighten me…”

Still Sebastian said nothing. If he were human, he felt there would be sweat on his brow. If the Undertaker could make these observations, than it meant the sympathy he felt growing in him was as much of a cancer as he feared. Perhaps relying on Undertaker was the only choice he had…

“Well then. That’s all I have for you.” The fingernails stopped their rhythm. “But you need an alibi for the Earl, don’t you? So why not tell a joke after all? You may not feel like laughing, but I assure you, I do.”

Minutes later, Abberline and Ciel reentered the funeral parlor to the sound of Undertaker’s merriment. “Not bad…” he wheezed, arms and chin stretched across his coffin, as if he’d fallen over laughing and needed to be propped up. “Not bad at all…”

Abberline seemed put-off. “Wh-What did you do to make him laugh?”

“I told a simple joke.” Sebastian smiled, forced. “Nothing more.”

Ciel strode forward, plopping the thin case file into Sebastian’s palms for analysis as he approached Undertaker.  “All right, your ridiculous fee’s been paid. Now tell us about how Northcott died.”

Undertaker gave a long sigh, his breathing returning to normal. “The poor fellow,” he said remorselessly, “died from lung collapse due to blunt force trauma.”

Abberline smacked his open palm with the opposite fist. “So! He was killed by his horse, it wasn’t an attempted cover-up!”

“Not necessarily…” Ciel laid a finger lengthwise across his lower lip, thought for a moment. “Was there anything proving that a horse was the attacker?”

“The body is in miserable shape,” Undertaker shook his head. “The family isn’t going to want an open casket for this funeral, I assure you, hehe… The hooves that may have killed him did turn him to a fine pulp. Not much more can be discerned, alas.” He swept a long sleeve towards his back room. “You’re welcome to take a look for yourself, Lord Phantomhive. I only hope you didn’t eat recently.”

“Ugh. Your explanation will do, thank you very much.” Ciel took the case file from Sebastian as it was handed back, knowing his butler had read and memorized it easily even in that short time frame. “And there were no other signs of foul play? Rope burns on his wrists or ankles to imply he might have been restrained at one point?”

Undertaker shook his head. “There are no details I’ve spared you, Earl. It’s a corpse that’s been through much rough treatment. Certainly a terrified horse could have done this – so could a man, or a mob of them, with heavy enough of a weapon. Only further investigation can reveal the truth. But I wouldn’t say the trampling is so farfetched.”

Ciel turned. “All right, then. We’ll be off. Report to me immediately with any further discoveries, should they arise.”

Undertaker cackled softly. “I am your willing servant... Farewell, little Lord Phantomhive.”

The trio departed into the cloudy sunshine and the fresher air. Ciel handed Abberline back the case file. “So,” he said to the inspector, “Scotland Yard changed their tune? You too were assuming Northcott had been killed by someone other than his horse?”

“Ah…” Abberline shuffled the papers together, which had become unruly in his grip. “No… That is, I didn’t think so, until Randall gave me your opinion. He may consider you a rival, but the way I see it, we both strive for the same goal, and your sleuthing is so often correct, it seemed silly to ignore it. I trusted that you could be on the right path.”

Ciel hardly contemplated this before making a noise of disapproval in the back of his throat. “Hmph. Well, I wasn’t on the right path, and it’ll do you no good to follow anyone blindly. As for the goal we’re striving for, it is the same, but don’t think I’m as friendly as you. I intend to do things my own way. Good day, Addison.”

“Abberline! It’s _Abberline!_ ” was the shout that followed them out of the alley and onto the main thoroughfare.

There was no more discussion until Sebastian had hailed another cab. “My lord is not shy about saying he ‘doesn’t play well with others.’”

The carriage jerked to a start beneath them. “Is that a surprise to you? Of course it’s not, you just like teasing me too much.” Ciel fiddled with his cane, thinking again. “So it would seem that Northcott likely _was_ killed by his old racehorse. But that doesn’t mean the animal wasn’t provoked… and I wager that being trapped in a small space with a stinking corpse for so long stirred up its fear sense even more. No wonder Northcott was a supposed ‘pulp’ by the time anyone found him.”

“I don’t think my lord was wrong in his initial assumption, though,” Sebastian said. “From my evaluation of the crime scene, the smell of blood was in places aside from the body’s location… two trails of Northcott’s scent led from the stable entrance to the stall. I believe the man was already injured or dead when he was deposited inside.”

“… Which would make some sense, if he worked an illegal racetrack and one of their horses murdered him,” Ciel said. “Then his body might be put inside the stall, to make it look like some sort of freak accident … But why would Northcott be near enough to the track’s horses for them to harm him? And why would he be trying to ride his own horse in the middle of the night without a stable hand to assist? Either scenario could happen… It just seems… strange. He wouldn’t be a jockey, that’s for sure. I don’t know… Despite how many mysteries still surround it, this particular case is beginning to feel rather pretty, isn’t it?”

“Pretty, my lord?”

“Like it’s all coming together too nicely. I’m already very certain Northcott worked an illegal racetrack, for instance. There’s just a lot of details I feel are already confirmed. It makes me wary.” Ciel sighed. “Well, we still don’t know where this racetrack could be located and who else is involved. I don’t expect the whole charade to fall apart just because one man is dead.” The boy leaned back on the bench, closing his eyes. “But that’s enough for today… All I have energy for now is writing to Northcott’s lawyer. Fix me some Assam tea when we get back so I can think properly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh yes, and before I forget…” Ciel looked at his demon with suspicion. “Just what did Undertaker want you for anyway? Was it really _just_ a simple joke?”

“It depends on your definition of ‘simple,’” Sebastian dodged.

Ciel was wise to this game. “What else did he want from you, aside from the joke?”

“… He wanted little from me,” Sebastian said, with masked care. “What he really wanted was to tell me something, not I him.”

“So what did he tell you?” Ciel was getting impatient.

“He told me that… he wanted to study me.”

“… He wanted to _study_ you? Why-?” Ciel stopped and buried his face in his hand. “Ugh, never mind… I probably don’t want to know, do I? It’s the damn Undertaker, after all.”

Sebastian sniffed a laugh. “Yes, you probably don’t want to know.”

“Do I even want to know what joke it is that won him over this time?”

“Perhaps. I don’t believe your ears would be impartial to it.”

“Go on, then. Try and make me laugh.” A competitive edge had seeped into the boy’s tone.

Sebastian straightened. “You can tell a lot about a woman’s mood by looking at her hands.”

Ciel raised an eyebrow, then shrugged in inquiry.

“If she’s holding a gun, she is probably angry.⸸”

After a second, the boy did give a half-grin. “Tuh! I was hoping for more of a play on words… Seems Undertaker prefers the silly to the clever. I’m certainly not compelled to share that one at parties.”

Ciel was smug that he had not awarded Sebastian his own laugh. Sebastian was merely relieved that he had not been pressed for further details on his discussion with Undertaker. If there was anyone in the world who should not find out about his rapidly ‘changing aura,’ it was the boy who could best take advantage of it.

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Algernon Northcott was forty-six years old when he died. He was unmarried, with no heirs, which wasn’t so uncommon in this day and age. He had taken over his father’s shipping business, using a sturdy ocean liner with auxiliary sails, built in 1882 and taking the same route through the Mediterranean Sea to Alexandria for most of her career. Her imports included Egyptian cotton, Algerian olive oil, Tunisian wine – and Middle Eastern children, presumably more than once. Northcott had turned a decent profit and was an established member of the rising middle class. Only his hired crew had knowledge of the abducted children, as far as could be deduced, and Northcott had not kept any records of who these men were, likely in the off-chance that his crime was discovered. The crew was not about to turn themselves in, in any case.

In his return letter, the lawyer described the initial outline of Northcott’s will: that most of his money was to go to his remaining family (mainly first and second cousins, as Northcott had been an only child), with smaller percentages to be doled out amongst his staff, and the rest to charity. Unfortunately, the lawyer assumed most of Northcott’s trade documents were forged, as they did not account for any money that was made or lost by human trafficking, and it was possible Northcott had even held a private bank account to make up the difference. Until a better understanding of the dead’s financial exploits was known, Northcott’s riches were subject to forfeiture.

These were the details that Sebastian had gleaned from the case file and the lawyer’s letter, and this was the information Ciel had him regale on their way to Sacred Heart Orphanage of Westminster Abbey the following day.

“Aunt Francis told me that this was the most disgusting part of London when she was a girl,” Ciel said, looking out the window as they passed along Pye Street. “They once called it ‘the diseased heart’… But the year I was born, the Public Health Act was passed, and the worst of the filth was transformed into what you see today. Thank God.”

Sebastian chuckled. “Very good, my lord. Reciting history lessons unasked, how proud I should be.”

Ciel smirked. “They also called this sector ‘the Devil’s Acre.’”

“Of that you need not remind me,” Sebastian sighed. “The human association of the devil with filth continues to perplex me. Even those who do not believe in demons speak of our poor taste. How misguided.”

“It is the least of our slights against you.” Ciel was clearly pleased to have insulted his own personal devil nonetheless.

The orphanage was on Romney Street near Smith Square, in a two-story cubbyhole of a dwelling, squeezed between brick housing units. It was in some disrepair and clearly old, the shutters battered and walkway cracking, but a little garden out front tried to brighten the scene. The stairs creaked almost dangerously beneath their feet but held, and when Ciel knocked on the paint-peeled door, it took almost three minutes for the nun from yesterday to answer it.

She smiled warmly as she recognized Ciel. “Welcome, young one! I’m so glad to see you’ve found your way. Have you decided to come live with us after all?”

“Good grie- _I’m not an orphan!_ ” Ciel snapped. His shoulders unbunched as he considered his words. “Well… actually, I suppose I am an orphan, but… I’m perfectly able to take care of myself.” Sebastian barely restrained himself from tutting. _Perfectly able, is that right! That’s news to me._ “I’m here to ask you more about your relationship with Algernon Northcott. Do you mind if we come in and speak with you briefly?”

Tears came to the young nun’s brown eyes again. “Yes, of course – it’s the least I can do in his memory.”

As Ciel strode into the narrow entrance hall, he couldn’t be restrained from bursting her bubble. “I know he was very supportive of your orphanage, but it’s worth noting that before he was murdered, Northcott was convicted of human trafficking.”

“I did hear that,” the nun said evenly, “and I have trouble believing it to be true.”

“I have trouble believing the opposite.” Ciel’s voice tightened distastefully as they passed a banister steeped in laundry. “He was murdered within hours of the victims being discovered by the police. And the testimony from the man driving the wagon of children revealed that he was only taking them halfway. Their final destination would be a secret even to him. So, with that in mind–”

“Please.” The nun held up her hand, stopping them before a whitewashed door. “The children are eating their lunch in here. I’d prefer they didn’t hear this disturbing talk.”

Ciel and Sebastian followed her into the little space, where the orphans were gathered around a large butcher block table, hunched over plates of what looked to be roast beef. They had no eyes for the newcomers, so focused were they on the meal they ate with their hands.

As if remembering it, Ciel said, “You told me that Northcott donated food to you, amongst other things. What specifically did he bring you?”

“What you see the children eating now is the last of the beef he gave,” the nun explained. “He told me he had a cousin who raised dairy cows. When one of them grew too old to produce milk any longer, Mr. Northcott would have it butchered and deliver the meat to us. Once a month or so, we were given these offerings. The meat doesn’t keep for long, but it would usually serve a couple days’ worth of meals.”

“A cousin who raised dairy cows…” Ciel’s research on Northcott’s extended family had thus far been meager, but this detail seemed to raise a red flag. “You said this was the last of it, but did you happen to discard any of the raw meat?”

“Only a bit of it,” the nun said, almost defensively. “Only a part that had seemed to go gray faster than the rest… It wouldn’t do us well to be wasteful here.”

“No, I trust it wouldn't. If you still have it in your waste bin, I’d like for my partner here to eat it,” Ciel said, smiling more at Sebastian’s look of annoyance than the nun’s cry of shocked disgust.

“Don’t sound so worried, he’ll be fine,” Ciel spoke in his butler’s place. “He’s quite an experienced connoisseur... and he's digested much worse. Take my word.”

“And mine,” Sebastian interjected stiffly. Ciel’s exposed eye seemed to sparkle.

“But why?” the woman had to know. “What is the purpose of eating raw meat that’s been thrown away?”

“I suspect that what Northcott gave you is something other than beef,” Ciel explained. “Nothing to worry about the children eating… but not beef. And if Sebastian tastes the creature’s blood, he will be able to tell us what it is. Won’t you?”

“… I imagine so.” It wasn’t often that Ciel was so forthright about Sebastian’s ethereal abilities, but the boy was lapping up his demon’s displeasure like buttermilk today.

There was a little metal pail in one corner of the kitchen, containing knotted fistfuls of pumpkin seeds and eggshells and apple cores, and a soft gray clump of meat like the cherry on top. Ugh… Sebastian reached in his gloved fingers, plucking the morsel out and tossing it into his mouth. He made no show of disgust, knowing it would only encourage Ciel’s schadenfreude, though Sebastian's disapproval lay more in humiliation than nausea… But the meaning for this crude task became clear as a particular taste of death whirled around his senses. Ciel had been right to have Sebastian eat the raw stuff. If he’d sampled any of the cooked meat, he wouldn’t have known what it was, for he had never eaten it before. The blood spilled secrets that the flame would burn away.

“Horse meat,” he said, and by Ciel’s expression knew the boy had anticipated this.

The nun hadn’t. “Horse meat? Well, that’s all right as well, just as fine as beef… but why would Mr. Northcott lie about this?”

“That’s the question I aim to answer,” Ciel said. “With him, it always seems to go back to horses… Whether he killed them or they him. Did Northcott donate anything to you, apart from money? Any clothing or other sorts of food?”

“He did not.” The nun folded her hands in front of her. “It seems strange to talk about Mr. Northcott like this; almost as if I am betraying him. He would visit us a few times a year. He knew the children by name. He would share with them his favorite passages from the Bible. It isn’t easy for us to accept that within his chest was a dark heart.” The tears were in her eyes again.

Ciel was not well-versed in comfort. “Northcott left money for you in his will. Unfortunately, his assets will likely be forfeited to the government, as they may have been obtained through illegal means.”

The nun nodded solemnly. “Even in death, he cares for us…”

“The dead can’t take care of anybody,” Ciel said, words shadowed by his own experience. “Therefore I’ll be sending you a cheque tomorrow to help you keep up with the expenses of the orphanage. Expect it in the mail by the afternoon.”

“I couldn’t possibly take your money!” the nun cried, placing her hands on his unprepared shoulders. “God smiles upon such kindness… but a boy your age, working so hard to survive, should be saving every penny for himself.”

“Does what I say go in one ear and out the other?!” Ciel clapped a hand to his forehead. “Maybe your selective hearing can retain this much: I’m Earl Ciel Phantomhive, watchdog to the Queen. I’ve donated money to you _before_. Now please get your hands off of me before I change my mind about it.”

“You’re… Earl Phantomhive?” The nun covered her mouth. “Then you have also been our dear friend… But you’re so young!”

“And so exhausted by your declarations,” the boy sighed, turning his back to her. “I think it’s about time we left…”

“Young one.” The nun placed one of her hands gently on the side of his head, making Ciel blink largely, surprised, confused, and a little affronted at this familiarity. “You engage yourself in a dangerous game… One that people your age have no business knowing.”

Ciel rolled his head out from underneath her palm. “That’s where you’re wrong again.” He began striding towards the exit, holding himself tall. “This is only child’s play.”

❧┅┅┅┅┅┅♙┅┅┅┅┅┅♖┅┅┅┅┅┅♘┅┅┅┅┅┅♔┅┅┅┅┅┅♛┅┅┅┅┅┅♞┅┅┅┅┅┅♜┅┅┅┅┅┅♟┅┅┅┅┅┅❧

Over the next two days, the discoveries reached a drought. Ciel interviewed one of Northcott’s first cousins when he arrived in Surrey to account for Algernon’s possessions but, aside from confirming they had no relative who raised dairy cattle, nothing came of it. None of Northcott’s shipping crew was apprehended or heard of. The man who had been driving the wagon of abducted children was still the only one known to be connected to the trafficking. Unfortunately, he knew nothing of the big picture – he was just an East End vagabond who would take whatever odd job gave enough shillings for food and liquor. Running out of human leads, Ciel had taken to scanning day-old, week-old, month-old newspapers for anything related to horses or the Middle East or similar crime, any clues that might have been hiding behind a petty headline all along. It wasn’t until the letters arrived that any significant progress was made.

There were two of them, one from Undertaker and one from the nun, but their contents were virtually the same. Homemade envelopes contained twin posters for a competition, to be held by a Mr. Gwilym Hastings in a month. The font was bold, neat, attractive. Both nun and Undertaker seemed to find the announcement of this competition strange and a little too timely. Both also bid Ciel to take care – the nun with her candid worry, the Undertaker, more likely, with a sly, taunting edge.

The competition Hastings advertised was for a horse race.

“These posters were apparently tacked across the East End and London docks,” Ciel explained to Sebastian. “And if you read the print, you’ll see that this Hastings is looking specifically for poor young boys to train into jockeys. Poor young boys who, no doubt, are looking for work and may not have families who would miss them. This is out of charity, Hastings states, a way of helping the less fortunate to find work… perhaps even become famous. A real-life rags-to-riches story.

“Five of the most talented applicants will be selected to live at his manor. He’ll pay their room and board while training them as professionals to someday compete in the Ascot.” Ciel thrummed his fingertips over the center ink drawing of a man on the back of a rearing stallion. “Seems like the sort of competition one might propose if they, say, ran an illegal racetrack and had just lost their access to child labor.”

Sebastian grinned. “Yes, this does reek of coincidence, doesn’t it? And what would you like to do with this information, my lord?”

“Isn’t that the question.” Ciel plopped his elbows on his desk and knitted his fingers together. “This Mr. Hastings… I haven’t heard of him before. I imagine he’s also a member of the middle class, like Northcott was. Wealthy enough to sponsor a racetrack, perhaps… Not wealthy enough to run it through legal means.” The boy leaned back. “I’m about ninety percent convinced that this racetrack exists now. But where it is and how to find it is the mystery. And I don’t suppose confronting Mr. Hastings would convince him to outright show it to us, even if we threatened him. I’d try it if I knew that he were in charge of the whole operation, but he might just be another piece of the puzzle like Northcott was.”

“The English countryside isn’t small,” Sebastian said. “Even if I were to search for a racetrack, without a direct lead, it wouldn’t be a swift process.”

“But now we know another player in the game,” Ciel said. “Or at least, it seems very clear that we do. If we stood vigil outside his manor… followed him if he went somewhere in the middle of the night…”

Sebastian leaned forward a fraction. “Hmm. I think we both know why that wouldn’t be the most surefire answer, my lord.”

“Hastings might not go anywhere or do anything suspicious,” Ciel answered in a growl. “And I might just end up wasting my time…”

“That, and even if we did follow him to an illegal racetrack, what would you do from there?” Sebastian smiled. “Let’s say everything goes according to plan and we find just what we’re looking for. Even if I killed everyone there, stable hands and gamblers, and we happened to find the child jockeys too, the ringleaders pulling the strings from far away would still live. These people are the real threat, as you well know… But the answers you seek would die with the racetrack if you invaded it mindlessly.”

“Argh… And incapacitating or killing so many people would leave a lot of blood on my hands. The Queen wouldn’t be happy with the way I handled things… Especially not after Noah’s Ark.” Ciel chewed his lip. “I’ll have to infiltrate, of course. If I can blend in with the betting crowd, I could get them to lead me to their racetrack… Then I could explore the place and find out who the big bosses funding it were… And take out those leaders methodically instead.”

“But why,” Sebastian began, “would anyone be willing to lead a young aristocrat there? Or anyone so young, for that matter? Surely they must have standards for who is to be invited, or else word would get out all too quickly of their operation. Even if they did not recognize you as the Earl of Phantomhive, no doubt your age would raise suspicions.”

Ciel grunted. “And if they _did_ recognize me, it’d all be over.”

Sebsastian took a step towards the desk, leaning forward even more. “If only there were some way you could attend as you are and not be suspected… Hmm?”

The grandfather clock in the corner tick, tick, ticked. Chimed.

“… But that would be worse than the circus!” Ciel cried in realization, jumping to his feet.

“Oh come now, my lord. You are just the proper age to try out for the competition. And you already know how to ride a horse.”

“But I don’t know how to ride a _racehorse!_ ”

“Neither would any of the other boys.”

“I would just exhaust myself! Last time I did something so physically taxing, I got sick and couldn’t properly investigate anyway.”

“I don’t think that would happen this time, my lord.”

“And why is _that?_ ”

“Because you would have an entire month beforehand to practice.”

Ciel went silent, angrily contemplating, angry because he knew this was the best course of action. A man who abducted young jockeys – killed when his trafficking was discovered. Another man calling for young jockeys – days after the first man died. Equine connections everywhere one looked. An underground racetrack, only hinted at, really only imagined, tucked somewhere in the foothills. Horses killed, a horse who killed, and a way to freely investigate it all plopped in their laps like a neat little gift.

“... I don’t suppose you know how to train a jockey,” Ciel finally sighed miserably.

Sebastian’s smile only changed the smallest bit, but the angle of his head above the boy somehow made it all the more menacing. “I believe I have… some ideas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ※: From Charles Dickens' _Oliver_.
> 
> ⸸: To the original creator of this joke, my thanks and my apologies.


	11. The Soft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been awhile, so in the last chapter you might recall that Ciel and Sebastian are searching for an illegal racetrack likely run by some of London's upper-middle-class. Believing they've found a lead to the track through a Mr. Hastings, Ciel decides to enter Hastings' racing competition to gain the man's trust and uncover the truth. Unfortunately, in order to win the race, Ciel must train rigorously for the next month...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to tumblr users back-to-bays, ofrosessusansandcarnations, smarty-jones, and theoldbrownnag, and Reddit user phayzzer, for helping me with my questions about jockeying! I'm sure what I wrote proves my inexperience in this area, but your advice was greatly appreciated and greatly useful.
> 
> As for the title of this chapter, a "soft" is a term applied to a sheepdog who is sensitive and may be difficult to work with unless treated gently. Though I usually apply sheep terms and not dog terms to Ciel in my chapter titles, it was too fitting not to use here. You'll soon see why.
> 
> Lastly, sorry it took me so long to post this! I really, really struggled this past month with self-confidence, due to a medication change that wound up being a bad idea. Things are going a lot better now, and even though I'm still battling doubt, I'm hopeful that my writing will return to its usual consistency. A special thanks to everyone who writes reviews, they're a lovely thing to boost my spirits!
> 
> With that said, enjoy!

The Phantomhive stables contained five horses, all of them male. Three nearly-identical Welsh cobs were specifically for pulling the carriage. They were dark brown, sturdy animals, kept as sleek as burnished brass. The only notable differences between Yankee, Merrylegs, and Gilbert were the length of the socks they bore on their well-muscled limbs. Ciel did not concern himself with these horses, thinking more of them as extra servants – just as well, as he’d allowed Bard, Finny, and Mey-Rin to name them. Only Irish and Sysonby were worthy of bearing the young master on their broad backs.

Irish was a mild-mannered thoroughbred, aptly named due to his red coloration. He was fourteen years old, just like the boy who owned him, though himself far past adolescence. He was gentle, easy to ride, but not opposed to a jaunt through the Phantomhive territory. Irish was bought with the intention of having a horse for Lizzie available, if she ever wanted to go riding when she visited, but Ciel liked the sorrel too. It was an obedient creature, not at all unpredictable, and difficult to spook. Though Ciel did not often proclaim it, he had a fondness for tame animals and their unconditional loyalty. “I can trust him more than I can most people. More than you, without a doubt,” Ciel had once sneered at Sebastian, before twice thumping a hand against Irish’s velveteen neck.

Sysonby was the very opposite of the gelding. For one, he was a stallion, and for another, he was very proud. A handsome black hackney horse, Sysonby had the attractive high step his breed was known for and flaunted it whenever possible. He adored being ridden, though he would often get overexcited and move a little more quickly than Ciel wanted him to. Sysonby was a challenge to control, and Sebastian knew Ciel was quietly thrilled by it. When it came to the stallion, the only thing Ciel seemed to enjoy more than reining him was making remarks about Sebastian’s likeliness to the beast.

“What an idiot,” Ciel would say with a smirk as the nine-year-old horse paraded about in his stall, longing to show off for his master. “He’s just as eager as you are to do everything perfectly. And see how he looks to me for approval – or for an apple, maybe. It all comes down to food for the both of you, doesn’t it? I fancy your brains work just the same way.”

Sebastian did not consider himself at all similar to the horse, or any animal that man had bred for servitude, but as both shared a master, both would have to endure said master’s evaluations from time to time. Sebastian theorized he and the horse alike would receive a rather scathing review from a tired, biased lord today.

Though Bard was, by title, the chef of the manor, he was more often the horses’ caretaker. The stable just off the servant’s entrance was where he spent half his day, feeding, grooming, and exercising its five residents. He also kept the tack and leather in good condition, one of the few lessons the army had managed to ingrain, as far as Sebastian was concerned. When Sebastian walked into the stable that morning at half past five, Bard had one of Gilbert’s huge fetlocks in his palm and was examining the hoof’s underside.

“It was jus’ a pebble stuck in your shoe, Gil,” he teased the large cob. “You’re limpin’ and carryin’ on like a big baby over nothin’! Why, if you was a person, Mr. Sebastian’d have you right out the door and flat on your tailbone, lickety-split.”

“Hmm, would I now? And here I found myself considerably lenient when it came to you and the other two simpletons,” Sebastian announced himself.

Bard leapt up from where he’d been crouching in the open stall and threw a tall-backed salute. “Mr. Sebastian? Eh, uh, morning, sir. W-What can I do for ya?”

“What you can do is prepare Irish for a ride.” Sebastian took out his pocket watch from his jacket, sprung the lid, and tucked it back away. “The young master is going to be waking up in half an hour, and he’ll be working the horse hard. Make sure you choose a good headstall and a bit with fair tongue control.”

Bard’s shocked expression said he had a number of questions. “A ride this early, sir? What for? I’ve got nothin’ against anything the young master does, jus’ didn’t think he was wakin’ up before ten these days…”

“Well, that’s about to change,” Sebastian said jovially. “Please get to it, so that the horse is ready by the time I have the young master dressed.”

“Sure thing, sir… Ah, wait! Jus' thought of something,” Bard called as Sebastian began to turn. “Does it hafta be Irish that the young master rides? Sysonby’ll be right upset if he sees Irish gettin’ first pick. Horses, they got a hierarchy a’ their own, y’see. Don’t like to have it messed with. Sysonby and Irish get along great most a’ the time, but I reckon Syson’ll bully him out in the pasture and act up somethin’ fierce if the master doesn’t make him the first choice.”

Sebastian knew it would be easier for Ciel to practice riding skills on a more obedient beast, hence why he had requested Irish. Ciel had not ridden in some time, either, and would probably need to reacquaint his muscles with the saddle, the motions of the horse.

But… Sebastian’s humiliation at the orphanage was fresh in his mind. The taste of raw meat he’d plucked out of the bin… The look of disgust on the nun’s pretty face as she watched him swallow… What an unbecoming aesthetic. So he agreed with Bard that yes, the eager, rambunctious, boastful Sysonby would be a terrific mount for the day and to prepare that horse instead.

And now, it was time to face the little Fred Archer※ himself.

The sun still burned low on the horizon at six o’clock. When Sebastian cast apart the bedroom curtains and invited in a face full of sunshine, Ciel didn’t move a muscle. It was clear he had been in the midst of deepest sleep and was still processing what the act of being awake at this hour even entailed.

“Good morning, my lord,” Sebastian said, leaning over the motionless form beneath the covers. “Are you ready to begin you first day of jockeying? I’m sure that Sysonby is raring to start.”

Ciel lifted his head a bit and opened only his cursed eye, wincing through the daylight. His face was scrunched up, tired, annoyed. “’s too early,” he managed in a sleepy slur. He rubbed all over his face with the heels of both palms and, when he was done, turned right into the mattress to hide from the sun.

Sebastian wagged his finger cheerfully. “It isn't too early for the East End boys, sir. They’d be awake by now, on the fishing boats and by the street corners with their newspapers.”

Ciel made an ungentlemanly snarl in the back of his throat.

“Of course, the East End boys are usually in bed by nine o’clock to be sure they have ample sleep for the day’s work… And you went to bed after midnight last night, yes?”

The boy still lay there like a corpse.

“Up, up, and let’s get you dressed.” Sebastian leaned closer. “Dear, dear… Such a slow riser will not be tolerated at the Hastings’ manor, I have no doubt… Are you giving up on the competition already, young master? What a pity.”

Apparently Ciel’s pride did not wake up with his consciousness. “My riding boots don’t fit,” he grumbled into the coverlet. “I can’t practice anyway…”

Sebastian tutted pleasantly. “You won’t be wearing riding boots, my lord. The East Ends boys wouldn’t have any, so neither shall you. You’ll be practicing in the old Brogan boots you use for going undercover.”

This injustice finally had Ciel raising his head. “That’s too complicated! I’m not used to all this.” He split off from whining to yawn. “What’ll you do if I fall off the saddle because I couldn’t ride right? You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you? Always did like thinking up new ways to make me look stupid…”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow, surprised but amused. A tired Ciel was difficult to deal with, yet it seemed that a _very_ tired Ciel couldn’t form a thorough-enough argument to take seriously. “I thought perhaps you would need the extra energy today, my lord, which is why I prepared a lapsang souchong brew for you. Such luxuries you won’t find as a jockey, naturally, but perhaps this is proof enough that my intention isn’t to make you suffer.”

Ciel sat up at last, glowering as he took the warm cup in hand. “Not yet, it isn’t…”

The expensive black tea opened the boy’s eyes and stood him to his feet but did not make him rational. Sebastian dressed him in long socks, plaid knickerbockers, and a white shirt with a club collar – not one of the designer pieces Nina had fashioned for him, but a tired, cotton one. During this, Ciel had a lot more to say.

“When am I going to eat breakfast?”

“At nine thirty, we will take a break.”

“We? You make it sound like you’re going to be working, too.”

“I won’t be riding, my lord, but I will be attentively coaching you the entire time.”

“And what are you going to have me do?”

“Practice on posture and form.”

“Is that going to take long?”

“Unless you prove yourself a prodigy, I imagine it will take all month.”

“But how long will it take _today?_ ”

“It should take only four hours, my lord. Any longer and you may overwork your muscles.”

“ _Only_ four hours?!” Ciel swung a kick at Sebastian’s shin. “That’s not short at all!”

“It’s your decision whether or not you follow through with it, young master,” Sebastian reminded with a wry smile. “Four hours is what I would recommend, if you want to have a surefire chance to best the others in the competition by next month. But if you’d rather not train at all and wing it… well, that’s an option too.”

Another kick was delivered as Sebastian pulled a wool sweater over Ciel’s head. “Like I need your cheek,” said the voice, muffled beyond the layer.

“Oh? Was I being cheeky?”

“It’s you we’re talking about, of course you were being cheeky!” Ciel's head popped free in a splash of static hair, and he folded his arms crossly. As Sebastian began tying on the boots, he heard Ciel drop his voice in pitch and mock under his breath, “It should take only _four hours_ , my _lord_.”

Sebastian paused in creating a bow, and looked up to see a boy who was blushing with self-awareness at the childish tone he’d just used. “Well, isn’t that unexpected. My lord does impressions,” he grinned as a third kick was administered promptly to his knee. “I was unaware I sounded so boorish. I shall endeavor to pay more attention to my inflections.”

“Stop talking altogether if you’re just going to be a nuisance!”

Half an hour later, Ciel had trudged down to the stables with Sebastian in his slow wake, still rubbing his eyes and yawning and drooping his shoulders forward. Sysonby looked the opposite of his master: dressed in gleaming leather, snorting and bouncing his front hooves, eyes wide and ready. Bard held the romping horse by its reins, warning laughingly, “Calm down, ya big fool! Behave yourself in front of the young master! You’re right embarrassing, you are!”

Ciel reached out to the tossing head, and Sysonby stuck his blazing white muzzle right into the palm, sniffing happily. The honest spirit had Ciel smiling in spite of himself. “Calm down, brute. How am I supposed to mount you if you don’t stop moving?” As if understanding English, Sysonby tried to hold himself still, though his legs did shake with contained excitement. He threw back his head again, snorting hard and tossing his mane, begging for mercy. “All right, all right. Hold him steady so I can get on,” Ciel told Bard as he put one foot in the stirrup, stepping high and allowing Sebastian to help him swing his body atop the huge animal. Ciel gave a huff as he settled himself on the saddle.

Bard looped the reins through his master’s hand and held Sysonby by his bridle. “Sorry if this is a mite forward a’ me, young master, but eh, is there a reason you’re wearing that to go out ridin’?” he asked, scratching the nape of his neck. “And so early, too! Though I suppose it ain’t any a’ my business,” he added as Sebastian glowered him into obedience.

“You can blame the one who chooses my wardrobe,” Ciel growled, shooting his butler a similar glare. “Apparently dressing me up like a little street rat is grand fun for him. As is rousing me at first light.”

Bard looked between the two of them, trying to piece together the strangeties. “Ah, well,” he said at last, “do have a pleasant ride, my lord. It is a beautiful mornin’ out there.”

It was a beautiful morning, by human standards anyway. The black horse’s strong legs parted the mist and sent dewdrops and grasshoppers scattering beneath his hooves. The sun was a strong young light that washed everything in an orange palette. Despite that, Ciel shivered beneath the wool. “You didn’t dress me warmly enough. Didn’t you think about that, or were you too busy making certain I looked like I had a single penny to my name?”

“I apologize for your discomfort. I’m sure my lord will find himself plenty warm, once he begins practice,” Sebastian said, leading the horse and his rider through an outcropping of trees surrounding the north side of the estate.

Ciel took one hand off the reins to rub away the goose bumps on his upper arm. “And dare I ask what it is you’re going to make me do?”

“That deserves an explanation, when the time comes,” Sebastian said, turning right towards a thicket. “Once you become comfortable riding in those boots, I will tell you what to do. And hopefully my lord will trust my judgment… For I believe it will be the key to his victory.”

“The key to my victory, hm?” Ciel was pensive for a moment, then shook his head. “No. I’m not looking forward to this. You sound too sure about it. No doubt that spells my misery.”

“We’ll see,” Sebastian said, and felt Ciel’s eyes on him again at that response. “Maybe misery now, to later trade in for success.”

“How am I going to practice this ‘misery’ anyway?” Ciel was grappling for excuses again. “There isn’t anything like a racetrack out here, and the ground is far from flat.”

“Of that you are mistaken, my lord.” Sebastian pulled back a low-hanging bow to reveal a new addition to the Phantomhive territory. “I believe _this_ shall fulfill the requirements of a racetrack.”

Where once grew a circlet of trees and soft grass was now a perfect oval of dirt road, lined by a wooden fence extending three furlongs. The ground was groomed and level the full way around the circuit. This was far from the most impressive of Sebastian’s work, taking only four hours to build, despite his contractual requirement that he create it step by step. Sysonby was curious about the structure, having run these backwoods a number of times and thinking himself familiar with the area. Ciel, however, was clearly perturbed that this jockey thing was _really happening_.

“Stop looking so proud about it,” Ciel snapped to Sebastian, as his horse leaned forward to explore the wood slats with his muzzle. “You didn’t even ask me if this was okay first.”

“But you agreed to let me be in charge of training,” Sebastian reminded, pulling at one of the fence posts to reveal it was a hinged gate. “I assumed that meant being certain there was a place _for_ you to train.”

Ciel wrinkled up his nose. “Whenever _you_ make an assumption, I should always be worried.” Still, he drove Sysonby forward onto the track.

It did not take Ciel long to get back in the habit of riding. Over the course of a few laps, Ciel worked the stallion up to a gentle canter. He swiftly fell into the motions of the horse’s rocking, moving his arms with the reins and his body with the momentum. Sysonby, however, was distractible and trying to show off his pretty step, and Sebastian allowed Ciel to speed him up and wear down his first layer of enthusiasm. Once the horse had been dulled by the monotony of the run, Sebastian addressed his lesson.

“So, my lord,” he called out from his place in the grassy center of the track, swiveling slowly to follow Ciel in his looping pattern, “what I’m about to propose may seem a bit unorthodox. But if you can adapt to the following technique, it will bring you absolute success in the competition.”

“Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to like this?” Ciel barked back.

Sebastian laughed behind his lips. “We will see when you give it a try, won’t we, my lord?”

The boy made a face. “Just tell me what it is already.”

“What you must do,” Sebastian began, “is lean yourself forward so that you rise off the saddle, up and over the horse’s neck as much as possible, and hold this position as long as you can without sitting back down.”

Ciel’s frown held, but he decided to follow the instruction – or at least try. He hiked himself out of the saddle and plummeted back down almost immediately. Again, with the same results. Sysonby slowed a fraction and twisted his head around, wondering what his rider meant by this. “That’s bloody impossible!” Ciel cried. He brought the horse to a walk and towards the inside perimeter of the fence. “It’s way too hard! Why in blazes have I got to do that anyway? Are you just trying to torture me?”

“Now, now, my lord. Consider it logically,” Sebastian said. “What do you think pulling yourself up small and close to the horse would do?”

“… It would cut down on wind resistance.” Ciel’s tone said he was stubborn to see his butler’s point.

“Correct – and it will minimize the effect your weight has on the horse’s movement. Streamline yourself, and you and the horse will cut through the air as a bullet.” Sebastian smiled. “But, as you’ve exemplified, it is much easier said than done.”

“Not to your displeasure,” Ciel snapped. Then he looked away thoughtfully, rubbing his thumb against the soft leather of the reins. “This is clever. This could completely change the way jockeys race… and yet, it’s so obvious when you say it out loud. It’s just too bad that a damn demon came up with it.”⸸

“From the young master, I suppose that is a compliment,” Sebastian beamed, making Ciel glare beneath his bangs. Sebastian returned a gaze full of his own fire. “But this technique won’t learn itself, now, will it? So, my lord… are you ready to try again?”

The blue eye stared at him hard, but eventually Ciel nodded once. He pressed his legs against Sysonby’s huge rib cage and goaded him into another canter. Once they’d gotten up to a nice even pace, Ciel lifted himself out of the saddle, holding his body up a bit longer this time. Only a bit though – two seconds later, he faltered unsteadily. Determination swept over the boy, and he tried again… and again… on the seventh try, he managed to hold a rough crouch for four seconds before Sebastian saw his eyes widen and his balance almost totter. Ciel sat down swiftly and regained his footing, then slowed Sysonby and road him over to the inside fence again.

Panting hard, Ciel worked his sweater off and over his hair. “It’s. Too. Hard,” he growled through gritted teeth, and launched the balled-up clothing at his butler’s face.

It was hardly a projectile. Sebastian caught the limp wool in his outstretched arms. “Too hard to make perfect,” Sebastian offered, moving closer to edge of the fence, “and certainly not in a mere day.” He took ahold of Sysonby’s bridle with one hand and reached out to Ciel with the other. “Perhaps a demonstration is in order?”

Ciel didn’t reach back. “Some demonstration that would be. You’ll do it just right without even trying. As if I could learn anything!”

Sebastian shrugged, then removed Ciel manually from the horse by seizing him under the armpits. “My perfection is exactly how you will learn,” he said above the boy’s ranting, and deposited him inside the middle fence, as one places a rabbit in its pen when they are done petting its ears.

Ciel was red with frustration as Sebastian took his effortless turn on the saddle. The stirrups were at an improper place considering Sebastian’s height, but it didn’t matter – this was nothing for a demon who opposed gravity whenever it pleased him. Sysonby was clearly unhappy with this change in command, but allowed Sebastian to bolster him to a jog anyway.

“This won’t just take just the efforts of your legs,” Sebastian said. He lifted his long body out of the saddle, hefting his knees over the top of the horse’s shoulders and laying his arms parallel with the neck, so that his head was just behind those pointed ears. “Every part of you should be engaged. The muscles in your abdomen should be holding you steady and hunched low, so that your knees stay crooked. Your arms must not go limp. They must remain just so along the horse’s neck. If you are to maintain utmost speed, than you must not think of yourself as a rider. You must think of yourself as being the least burden possible, to pretend as if you aren’t there at all.”

Ciel followed the display with his eyes but was mentally unmoved. “Congratulations. You’ve just made it sound even worse than it did before.”

“Given your physical prowess, I do not think you will manage to refine this technique in a month,” Sebastian said, making Sysonby nicker in surprise when he sprung out of the saddle and landed beside Ciel with a low bow. “But if you can even hold the crouched position for twenty to thirty seconds come the day of the competition, this Hastings fellow will surely find you talented enough to be within the top five contestants.” Sebastian held up a single finger. “Practice makes perfect, you well know. Therefore, what you will do is practice every single day, and how you will practice is through repetition. You will attempt the pose; I will tell you how to fix it. Then you will rest for a brief minute, and try the pose again. Again and again you will do this, for twenty-eight days, until it is second nature to you.”

“This _is_ torture, damn it!” Ciel snapped with clenched fists.

“ _This_ is how you will infiltrate the racetrack,” Sebastian said. It was hard to mask his delight when his charge’s soul was so clenched. “Do you remember when I helped you bluff your way through the Noah’s Ark assessment? After a few days, the circus members were suspicious of your initial performance, because you could no longer throw knives and walk a tightrope. It ended up being all right, as we only stayed for a short while – not to mention you fell ill… but will things work out so smoothly here? I’m sure we could falsify your way through this test of skill as well… but that could lead to further complications. Would Mr. Hastings introduce you to his underground racetrack in a matter of days? Or would you have to prove your worth at his manor first? Would he not catch on to some such charade if you couldn’t explain your own training?” For the second time that day, Sebastian extended his hand as an offer to the boy. “What would you like to do, young master?”

For the second time that day as well, Ciel did not accept the hand. Instead, he glared at his demon quietly. A strong spring breeze sent his bangs billowing about his ears, sticking to the new sweat on his forehead. Then his glare disappeared behind his lids. “I think… I would like to have myself some breakfast.”

“Eh?” Sebastian’s elbow and wrist dropped ever so slightly. “… You mean, then, that you would like to stop already, sir?”

“No, I want you to serve me bangers and mash while I engage in this real-life carousel. Yes, I’d like to stop,” Ciel scoffed, “and I’m well aware we haven’t even been working for half an hour. But this is difficult, I’m starving, and I have something I want you to do instead anyway. Wipe that disapproving look off your face, I’m just done for _now_. Seriously, what did you expect, putting me on Sysonby instead of Irish? Look how impatient he is already, he doesn’t want to do this anymore. I’ll have to give him a jog around the estate or else he’ll start cribbing at his stall door.” ⸶ Then he extended a hand of his own, jabbing his index finger at his butler. “This work is _hard_. I can already feel my muscles starting to ache, and we’ve only just begun. If you really expect me to learn from you, you’re going to have to rethink your strategies. And you’ll have time to rethink them while I send you on an errand to go buy Northcott’s racehorse from the veterinarian.”

That spiel had given Sebastian a lot to consider. He chose to comment only on the final sentence. “What are your plans for Northcott’s horse, my lord? I have trouble seeing its necessity in the investigation any longer.”

Ciel folded his arms. “It doesn’t have any necessity in the investigation. I merely want the horse for my personal stables.”

Sebastian was confused. “A horse that has been so distressed?”

“I’m well aware of its disposition,” the boy growled. “I didn’t ask you to question me, I asked you to go and buy the thing. Though none of Northcott’s family wanted it, so technically it shouldn’t cost any more than what the knackery would pay, but be sure to throw in a little extra to accommodate the doctor’s care, and to keep him from spreading the word about my purchase. I don’t need half of London wondering why I’ve decided to house some deranged beast. Now, get me back to the manor and make me some sausages. The carousel quip may have been sarcasm, but the bangers and mash wasn’t.”

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The veterinarian was perplexed at why Ciel would want the traumatized racehorse (“He screams like a banshee whenever he gets frightened”) and surprised but accepting of the hush money (“I’m not much of one for gossip, but if Lord Phantomhive insists…”), and helped Sebastian fasten the drugged-up animal onto the back of the carriage. Yankee and Merrylegs had been assigned to pull, and they rolled their eyes and ears over their shoulders, listening to the nervous whickering of their fellow creature. The racehorse had been blinded with a makeshift hood fashioned out of a potato sack, two places cut out for its ears to come through. Unlike humans, horses were more likely to take chances when they couldn’t see what was up ahead – or far behind.

By the time Sebastian returned to the manor, the opiates had largely worn off, and the horse’s sounds of distress were beginning to unnerve the cobs up front (as well as anyone unfortunate enough to pass them by). Once they neared home, these noises also attracted the attention of Ciel and Sysonby – they emerged from the backwoods to keep pace with the carriage.

Both the boy and his mount were glancing over their shoulders at the newcomer. “I could hear his commotion from down the road,” Ciel said to Sebastian, stationed in the driver’s seat.

Sebastian smirked in mild irritation. “I imagine that you could, my lord.”

“I see his time under the doctor’s eye has done little to calm his nerves.”

“Indeed. I’m not entirely sure what will, other than more opiates.”

“Bard thought of some things,” Ciel said. At Sebastian’s raised eyebrow, he added, “When he was in the Army, Bard said some of the horses would get spooked by explosions and gunshots, especially if things went off right under their feet. He thinks he might know some ways to bring this horse around too.”

“You have quite an interest in rehabilitating him,” Sebastian noted.

Ciel glowered again. “Well, I won’t be able to ride him if I don’t, will I?”

Sebastian felt an irritated stirring at that declaration. Ride him? Why was the young master so interested in riding him? A point of pride, perhaps? It seemed a misplaced priority, considering the Queen’s mission they were practicing for. And the horse’s persistent crying was a reminder of just how questionable he was for human handling.

Ciel clicked the reins and started to ride ahead. He shouted over his shoulder, “Bring the horse over to the paddocks when you’re through in the carriage house. Then we’ll hear what Bard thinks.”

“Yes, my lord…” Sebastian said without total surety.

The racehorse had been fastened to the back of the carriage with a simple halter made of rope, above which was the crude sort of hood. Sensing Sebastian’s nearness, the horse began to paw and shy away. It didn’t act up too badly while he untied it from the carriage boot, but when Sebastian tried to lead it, the horse pulled back and reared slightly and shook its mane. Sebastian smiled and then yanked the heavy head down so that it was level with his.

“Oh my, we are feisty,” he purred darkly. “I have small patience for those who aren’t my charge, you see… Or rather, who aren’t my charge or of feline origins. Would you prefer to be cutlets and salami right now? That is the fate you have escaped at the knackery, you should know – and yet, you treat me as if _I_ am the enemy. Your kind cannot be reasoned with so easily… If you did not oppose me, I should not have to use force. But so be it.”

And that was how Sebastian convinced the horse to go to the paddock: by tying a rope around its chest and shoulders and drag-tugging it along.

The horse was still snorting and whinnying roughly as they made it to the fenced-off area for the livestock. Irish and Gilbert immediately rushed to the front of the paddock, nostrils working to a catch a whiff of the stranger. Sysonby was in the enclosure with them now, too, looking especially curious. Ciel and Bard were standing by, watching Sebastian’s handiwork.

“Some brace you’ve designed there,” Ciel snorted. “Was that _really_ the most efficient way you could think to get him here? Against his will?”

Surprisingly, Bard gave Sebasian’s method his approval. “It’s bit of a strange set-up, but it’s all right. The horse needs to remember that people are in charge and that that’s okay. Good things’ll happen if he puts his faith in people – good things like going to pasture, gettin’ food and water. Even if it means usin’ a bit a’ harmless force here and there.”

The paddock was segmented into four parts for the sake of rotational grazing. Bard opened the gate to a section separate from the rest of the herd. As Sebastian guided the hooded animal inside, the other horses followed along from their side of the fence, long noses pointed and scenting, like a trio of sight hounds. Bard and Ciel watched from the sidelines as Sebastian removed the blindfold and the harness. Once free, the racehorse scattered across the grass, arching and weaving before coming to a stop in the field’s center, his tail whisking as he watched Sebastian depart.

“I’m surprised he hasn’t been branded,” Sebastian heard Ciel say. “I suppose they wouldn’t do that to a racehorse though. It would look unappealing.”

Bard shook his head, chewing on an unlit cigarette. “Nah, he’s still marked, I’m sure. Probably just on the inside a’ his lip instead a’ his flank.”

“Oh.” Ciel put a hand to his chin. “So then… what do we do from here? How do we make him tame again?”

“You said he was trapped in his stall with a dead body?” Bard scratched at his stubble. “I mean, I don’t have any firsthand experience with that kinda circumstance… But to apply some general advice to it, we take it at his pace. Approach ’im softly n’ treat ’im good. He’s scared ’cause he thinks he can’t count on people anymore. So what we have to do is show ’im that he’s got to. I don’t got a clue what could be goin’ through his brain, but Avalon wouldn’t be behavin’ like this if he hadn’t come to some conclusion that people weren't friends.”

Sebastian closed the gate behind him. “Avalon?”

“The name of the horse, ain’t it?” Bard said. “That’s what you told me, right, young master?”

“Um. Yes,” Ciel said, and lowered his chin to look at Sebastian from the top of his eyes, as if sheepish to be caught naming his own animal. He coughed into a fist. “Bard, your main job now is to look after Avalon and get him back to normal, or as close to it as possible.”  His blue eye looked onto the field. “Remind him what he is, what he's capable of being again. Understood?”

“A’ course, sir. I’ll do my absolute best, at least,” Bard said. He sounded a bit taken-aback yet honored to be counted on for this. “Most a’ the horses I worked with weren’t so wary as this one. But I’ll give it my all, you can count on it.”

“As for you.” Ciel fixed Sebastian with a hot glare. “I hope you reconsidered your strategies like I told you to. We have a lot of work to do.”

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Sebastian had been Ciel’s teacher before, and he considered himself a good one at that. However, Ciel’s mental fortitude was vastly superior to his physical ability. Where Ciel needed little guidance when it came to the fundamentals of language and music, Sebastian realized by the second lesson that this was harder for him to grasp. Being of a flexible nature, the demon had never needed to award much thought to athletic feats, but recognized Ciel was getting nowhere fast trying to imitate the crouch pose all at once.  It needed to be broken down into simpler parts so that his muscles could adjust.

Ciel started practicing by standing in lowered stirrups and maintaining balance with his feet. It was hard enough for him to do this at a trot – he wobbled uncertainly the whole while, trying desperately not use his knees to hold himself steady. Sebastian had warned him that that would interfere with the horse’s gait.

“You seem to know an awful lot more about what’s going to trouble Irish than what’s going to trouble me,” Ciel snarled on the second day. But by the end of day three, he was able to hold himself upright with just a bit of struggling.

From there, Sebastian mentally constructed a schedule of what he thought Ciel would be able to accomplish. Standing up in the stirrups while at a canter; then doing the same but with knees bent at lowering angles; hovering above the saddle while leaning over the horse; and then working towards a true crouched position while minding that his knees and arms did not add increased pressure on the horse’s body.

Sebastian was also quick to discover that four hours of labor in a day was too much to ask. Not only was the boy physically unable to meet the requirement, but mentally: the tedium of the task wore him down so that he could only stay focused for up to three hours at most before his attention and drive would disappear, and he’d need to break for food or rest or merely something else to do.

“I’m not meant for this,” he would complain, walking with a stiff stride after a session, putting his hands on his lower back and arching over backwards. “Why anyone would dedicate their life to such a strenuous, mind-numbing, headache of a regimen is beyond my understanding.”

The training was taking an equal toll on his body and mood. Ciel would submerge in a hot bath each night, washing away the day’s dust and letting his muscles relax. Then each morning he would wake up just as begrudgingly, just as in-pain. “Everything hurts,” he’d moan as Sebastian fashioned him in another one of his East End outfits. “I feel like I’ve been stretched out on the rack⸷… My legs are tight and my knees are clenching up and my back is aching and my neck has a cramp in it… And it doesn’t matter when I go to bed. I’m always tired! I _hate_ this!”

The complaints began at dawn and didn’t stop until Ciel declared enough was enough and that he was finished training for the day. These complaints were always aimed at Sebastian – and more often than not had to do with Sebastian too. “This isn’t working!” “Argh! Why aren’t I getting better yet?” “No, I don’t want to do that, so I won’t!” “That’s impossible, damn demon!” “Stop saying it like it’s so easy!” “I’m the one actually working here, so quit looking so smug!” “No, I’m _not_ going to do that because I’m done! Get me off Irish _now_! I need a break!”

At least once a day, Ciel’s frustration would reach its peak, and he would declare himself finished with practice for good. “This is ridiculous,” Ciel would snap. “This is too hard for me. I don’t care about the competition anymore! I’ll have to make do without all this miserable labor.”

But something always changed his mind. Sometimes that something was an increased rationality after lunch (the younger Ciel had eaten like a bird, but this current Ciel was a bottomless pit). Mostly, Sebastian noticed, his interest in training was renewed after spending some time with Avalon.

“What are you doing today?” Ciel would call out to Bard from beyond the paddock fence, leaning his elbows on top of it and supporting one of his tired knees on a lower board.

Bard was taking Avalon’s readjustment quite seriously. He and the horse were out in the field most of the day, doing small drills that looked simple, yet Ciel was still intrigued by. “I’m jus’ leading him in a circle so he gets used to a person being in-control a’ him again.”

Ciel pointed. “And why are you using that crop to touch his back leg while he moves?”

“It makes him want to keep walking, and reminds him that if I touch him, it’s nothin’ to be afraid a’ or do anything about.”

“Why is he afraid of being touched? He wasn’t abused.”

“No, but that’s how horses get, ’specially the ones prone to being skittish, like racehorses tend to be. When they get a bad opinion a’ somethin’, they want it to stay as far away from them as possible.”

Ciel moved over towards the gate and began to undo the latch. “I want to do what you’re doing. Show me how.”

Sebastian felt a twinge inside of him, but said nothing, and watched on as his charge approached the unpredictable animal. Bard’s work had already managed to pacify Avalon a little, and though the horse frisked away when Ciel approached, it didn’t flee. Bard gave Ciel some brief instruction, showing him how to engage the horse with the crop and the rope at once, and then laid them in the boy’s small palms. Ciel’s arms were a little tired from training earlier that day, so he had trouble keeping them raised, but soon he was turning the horse in circles to Bard’s approval. Out of context, the two could pass as a head groom and stable boy, given how Ciel was still wearing his East End garb. Sebastian looked on until Ciel gave the tools back. He left the scene before his charge could catch him staring.

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Another week and a half went by. Another morning of work at the track commenced. “Keep your back straight, even when you hunch over,” Sebastian called out. “Try to take your knees off of Irish’s shoulders. Lift yourself up higher. Bring your elbows in." Ciel's posture shivered and he collapsed onto the saddle. "Eight seconds that time. Rest a minute and try again.”

A look of pure rage crossed Ciel's features. He stopped the horse abruptly. “I don’t _want_ to try again!”

He’d only been practicing for forty minutes that day, yet he was already infuriated. Sebastian wasn’t amused. “My lord, it is too soon for you to take a break.”

That didn’t seem to matter. “This is hopeless! I’m terrible at this, it’s not worth practicing any more. Every time I get up on the horse, I do a thousand things wrong. I’m not getting any better, I’m just wearing myself out. I could be coming up with better plans for finding the underground racetrack, but instead I’m wasting time and energy on this exercise that I’ll never be any good at anyway!”

“My lord, you’ve already put yourself through sixteen days of this,” Sebastian reminded. “Twelve days more can be all the difference.”

Ciel ignored him. “You tell me yourself,” he shouted, “since you can’t lie. I’m never going to be any good at this, and you know it.”

“If I knew such a thing, I certainly wouldn’t encourage you to keep at it,” Sebastian half-laughed.

 But Ciel shook his head. “Let me out of the track. I’m done.”

“Young master…”

“I don't want to argue it, I just want to stop!”

When Ciel was upset like this, it meant he didn’t want to be around Sebastian anymore. Sebastian sighed but awarded him his space. As Irish was ridden off at a clip to the stables, Sebastian was left to comb the track with a rake and think about what he’d just been told.

That outburst had been a bit of a surprise. Yes, Ciel hated the training – he never made any bones about that – and no, he didn’t have a natural ability in this area. But to say he was hopeless was far from the case. And certainly his riding had improved since day one! Ciel’s learning was not stagnant; he had been putting real effort into it. His balance was greatly improved, even if his muscular strength had built at a meager pace. He listened to instruction, followed it to the best of his ability. There were times when Ciel was so swept with determination, Sebastian wondered if there was an underlying passion, despite all the complaints – though Ciel had coined the racetrack “limbo” in reference to the first ring of hell in _Dante’s Inferno_ , a clever but not exactly endearing nickname.

Ciel’s hatred towards racing was no surprise. The fact that he seemed to lack a concept of his progress was. He could hold himself aloft the saddle for up to ten seconds now. His posture wasn’t perfect but it was an approximation. Of _course_ Ciel had improved – logically he could only improve, yet for some reason the very logical boy couldn’t recognize that improvement.

 _Come to think of it, have_ I _ever made him aware of his improvement?_

Once the thought dawned on him, the trouble seemed obvious. Sebastian had not been giving Ciel any praise – he merely told him what to fix and carried on. No wonder the boy thought he was terrible at jockeying. All he heard was that he was doing things wrong. Considering a human’s innate need for affirmation, it was almost a wonder Ciel had lasted this long knowing only negative feedback.

Sebastian’s aptitude for compliments was, like Ciel’s riding, a skill that went against his nature but one he had half-learned nonetheless. He knew he had to remedy the situation at once. A pot of Ciel’s favorite Darjeeling and a Battenberg cake to soften his demeanor, then a few kind words like a magic spell, and hopefully Ciel would be won back to the lessons.

It took forty minutes to prepare the colorful sponges and coat them in sweet pink frosting. That was probably enough time for Ciel’s bad attitude to have cooled. But when Sebastian brought the tea and cake up to the study, he found it empty. The bedroom as well held no occupants. Sebastian puzzled this only briefly before shaking his head at himself. Of course Ciel was out with Bard and Avalon; these days, nothing calmed him as well as caring for the racehorse did. Sebastian left the trolley in the hall and ventured out the servant’s entrance, around to the opposite side of the manor to the paddocks.

As soon as he turned a corner of the house, he could see Avalon running in the paddock of his own will, free from Bard's rope and crop methods. Bard was watching but not attempting to stop the speeding racehorse. And Ciel was riding it.

All composure drained from Sebastian in an instant. It was replaced with something dark, encompassing, and indefinable. It filled the whole of him with frost.

He acted before he could think, as if on instinct. He moved like lightning. He whisked Ciel off the saddle and into his arms, away from the four-legged danger.

Ciel was startled by this unexpected touch and cried out. He blinked up at his butler, wide-eyed, then peered over Sebastian's shoulder to see his bay horse springing away in the background, terrified at the sudden loss of its rider. Ciel's jolting surprise faded into disapproval as he registered what was going on. 

Meanwhile, Sebastian felt instinct give way to emotion: relief. The boy was safe now - the soul was safe. But Sebastian's relief swiftly became realization, then disappointment, and ultimately he found himself angry. His face became stern. “What,” he began, “do you think you are doing, my lord?”

“What do you think _you’re_ doing?” Ciel spat back. “Who said you could interrupt me like that?” He fidgeted relentlessly in the cradle hold. “Set me on my feet right now! That’s an order!”

Sebastian did as he was told, but his mood only heightened. “By riding that horse, you deliberately put yourself in harm's way.” His words were seething, and he stooped so that he and Ciel’s eyes met. “That animal is not trustworthy anymore. He could suddenly decide you were too much for him and throw you off his back. Your fall could mean anything from a simple sprain to even death, if you fell badly enough. What could have provoked this utterly misguided decision of yours?”

Ciel was appalled. “How _dare_ you!” he finally choked. “You can’t talk to me that way!”

“Your well-being is my utmost priority,” Sebastian warned. “I cannot allow anything to jeopardize that… Even your own actions. Honestly, what on earth were you thinking? I fail to see how you thought that ride could possibly go without incident.”

“I was doing _fine!_ ” Ciel shouted, clapping a hand to his chest. “ _Nothing_ was going wrong at all, at least until _you_ intervened!”

“If I hadn’t, I wonder what the results would be,” Sebastian snarled, and straightened himself tall again. “This is just how it was with you in March. You are making life choices that go directly against your health and safety. I had hoped you had overcome such inane behavior, but now I see you are far from it. Must I monitor you at all times to be certain you do not give in to impulse?”

“I’m allowed to ride my own damn horse!” Ciel shouted. “If I think it’s a good idea, that’s all that matters! I don’t have to run things by you firsthand and make sure it’s bloody okay!”

“ _You_ are my contractual obligation,” Sebastian snipped, quieting.

Ciel didn’t match his volume. “ _You_ are disrespecting your master!”

“If my ‘disrespect’ keeps you out of harm’s way,” Sebastian spoke curtly, “than disrespectful is what I shall be.”

Ciel reached up and slapped Sebastian as hard as he could on the cheek before stomping off through the paddock gate and into the manor.

Bard had been slowly moving closer during this exchange, but now he finished making his way over to his superior. “Oy,” he practically breathed, “that was… hard to watch… Are you all right, sir?”

The slap had left no sting, at least not a physical one. Sebastian secured the chef with an icy gaze. “And you let him ride this half-tamed animal, did you...?”

By the complexity in his expression, Bard clearly felt the weight of Sebastian’s words, like a slap of their own. “‘Let him?’” he finally said with soft disbelief. He shook his head slowly. “He’s our master, Mr. Sebastian… We don’t ‘let’ him do anything. We just follow his orders, no matter what they be… Listen, I told him that it was too soon for riding Avalon, but the decision isn’t up to me. The young master insisted, so I saddled him up. I just did what was expected of me. That’s how people like you and I keep our jobs, y’know?”

The air between the men was stiff. Bard paused momentarily, mouth opening and closing a few times as he selected his next words with care. “The… The way you spoke to the young master just then, too, sir… It was… Well… Frankly, I’ve never heard anything like that in my life. Even soldier’s backtalkin’ their officers ain’t so blunt.” Bard looked at the ground. “I wouldn’t tell ya so if I… if I wasn’t so downright surprised at ya, sir.”

These words seemed to snap Sebastian into his right mind. His eyes widened on Bard. In the moment when he saw Ciel riding the horse, instinct _had_ taken over. His contract was in danger, and suddenly Sebastian had viewed Avalon and Bard as threats. Not immediate threats, nothing he had to dispatch then and there… but, with a curdling in his core, Sebastian knew he had wanted both to suffer at his hands.

It wasn’t the notion of killing an innocent that Sebastian felt shocked by. It was his own overreaction to the situation. Ciel had walked into greater peril on every one of the Queen’s missions – Sebastian had let him do it too. The notion of danger on his own turf, when he had least expected it, had thrown Sebastian into a frenzy. But that wasn’t excuse enough. Seizing Ciel right off the horse’s back and contemplating Bard’s death were extreme reactions born from extreme emotion.

Extreme emotion. That sympathy beast was alive and well, and now it was a beast of terror, too.

The silence was pressing and long. Sebastian could not bring himself to break it either. There was nothing to say to Bard that would explain his actions – Sebastian could barely understand them himself. Something had to be done, something, anything. Sebastian never wanted to feel that way again. Viscerally upset. Charged with fear. Severed from the confidence and self-assurance that had led him all his life. What was he becoming? What was happening to him?

To turn and ask for help was the coward’s way. But the coward outlived the daredevil and in that sense was not a fool. The thought of accepting the Undertaker’s aid pained him – but it would be better than knowing that awful feeling again. And so Sebastian departed for the mortuary at once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ※: A popular and very talented Victorian era jockey, who was said to ride like he "had the devil at his elbow."
> 
> ⸸: This riding pose, known as the monkey crouch, was in actuality made popular by American jockey Todd Sloan in 1897.
> 
> ⸶: Cribbing is when a horse gnaws on wood as a way of relieving stress or boredom. This wording also implies a habit of swallowing air while gnawing, which is bad for the horse.
> 
> ⸷: A medieval torture device that pulled a man in opposite directions by his limbs, stretching him out and usually dislocating bones. Ciel is definitely exaggerating the pain.


	12. The Outrun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, hey! I sure took my time with this!
> 
> I don't suppose I have much of an excuse. Just life, just having a full-time job... I work with words all day and come home and only have so many left for writing with. I really want to get back to my good writing habits, though. I'm not tired of this story by any means, and so whenever it gets posted, keep expecting the updates.
> 
> The outrun is another sheepdog term. It's the word used to describe when a dog is being sent out to work the flock. A well-trained dog will not run straight at the sheep but take a sweeping curve around them, to keep them from scaring.
> 
> There's a section in this chapter to do with clothes which probably just sounds like I'm throwing around random patterns and styles. I kind of was, but I also had a rough plan in mind, [so click here](https://78.media.tumblr.com/b407b9e4b5fbf78a977c1a032f3458e9/tumblr_p8akg2INsv1rv02tbo1_1280.png) to see some pictures of what I was considering.
> 
> Lastly... I'm afraid that this chapter might be kind of confusing in places. Please let me know if you're confused, as it will help me improve my writing and make things easier for you! Thank you and enjoy!

Sebastian wasn’t the sort to look before he leapt. That was evident in the way he’d stolen Ciel off of Avalon’s back without warning. Therefore, Sebastian knew he shouldn’t be surprised that he would find himself at Undertaker’s funeral parlor without a plan either.

It had only taken him fifteen minutes to travel from the Phantomhive manor to London, alternating between human and demon speeds, depending on if anyone may be near enough to catch a glimpse of him. Now Sebastian stood hesitant before the great, ugly door of the mortuary. He was not nervous. He was embittered by the idea of relying on anyone – let alone Undertaker. He had never had to before.

Sebastian let his teeth grow sharp in his mouth and his pupils become slotted. Even if he turned to someone for help, there was no reason to show that someone submission.

The mortuary was cold and still, yet the air was so thick with frankincense, the atmosphere felt heavy. Sebastian stood in the midst of it, eyes ticking across each corner of the room. There were barrels of salt and sawdust, bookcases of assorted legal and medical texts, and, on the walls, lengths of rope with bundles of herbs dangling from them like pennant flags. Towards the back wall was the large black coffin that Undertaker used as either table or chair, however it pleased him in the moment. The lights of a few melted candles and a low fire could scarcely brighten the room. Sebastian sniffed. What a farce the dim ambience made. Undertaker likely spent more time sanding pinewood than he did embalming bodies. It was probable that this aesthetic was just one that appealed to his warped tastes.

“Well, well, well... Look who it is. It’s sooner than I expected, but here you are.”

First the gravelly voice and then the Undertaker himself emerged from behind the hanging black cloth that served as the door to his back rooms. His Cheshire grin seemed all the wickeder. Though his eyes were hidden beneath sheepdog’s bangs, Undertaker faced Sebastian the whole time he made his way to his favorite coffin and sat upon its lid. He swung one leg over the other, and the pointed toe of his boot stabbed at the air.

Sebastian glared and did not yet speak. He resisted the urge to show off his teeth. He didn’t like to be looked at that way by anyone he couldn’t tear to ribbons.

“Did you change your eyes just for me?” Undertaker said innocently, spreading an open palm across his chest in mock wonderment. “I’m touched! You shouldn’t have.”

The demon kept his expression flat. No doubt the jokes would only persist if Sebastian proved his annoyance. Still, Undertaker was quiet for ten seconds more, drinking in the moment, until he finally said, “Now… why don’t you begin by telling me why you’ve decided to come today?”

Sebastian shook his head stiffly. “You will begin by telling me how you intend to be of use.”

Undertaker mirrored his client. “Well, I can’t rightly do that without the proper details, now, can I?”

“You know enough. You’ve made that clear.” Sebastian felt himself pull at the shadows of the mortuary, so that they grew where he stood. “If you can sense my ‘changing aura,’ than you must have some idea what it might mean and what to do about it. That is what you will tell me. I’ll be the one to decide how much more you need to know.”

Undertaker had his chin propped in both his hands, drowsily pleased, like a child watching a warm fire. “Very well,” he agreed, still smiling in that same way. “Though the truth is that I have no answers for you. I merely have educated guesses, theories that I entertain myself with.”

Before he began, Undertaker reached back behind the coffin and picked up a bleached skull, cradling it gently in his palm and tracing the teeth and cranial sockets with a pointed fingernail. He seemed to speak more to the skull than Sebastian when he said, “Tell me, butler. What does it mean to be immortal?”

There were a number of answers to that question. Sebastian would not recite them all, like some little schoolboy. “To live without time affecting ones’ physical form,” he said curtly.

Undertaker nodded, and made the skull nod at the same time. “Simply put, yes, that is immortality. And a fascinating thing, isn’t it? Humans lust over the idea of living forever, even if life is not kind to them. They sing of heaven, but fear the grave. Strange… Quite strange.” Undertaker paused to scratch a bit of dirt or dust out of the skull’s gaunt jaw. “But immortality comes with its own disadvantage.”

Two long, pale fingers were held up. “In my research, I have determined that not one but two types of immortality exist. I have taken to thinking of them as true and false immortals. The differentiation comes from where each draws their strength. The false immortal, for instance, can live forever, as long as they still rest and eat. They must create their own energy, but they can use that energy more efficiently and precisely than a human.”

“As a Reaper does,” Sebastian said.

Undertaker seemed delighted with that answer. “Yes, yes. Like a Reaper,” he simpered. “True immortals, however, create none of their own power or strength. They draw it from elsewhere. From the stars, from the darkness, from God himself – that I cannot say. What I do know is that it allows true immortals to have almost unyielding levels of control over their environment… and themselves.” Undertaker tapped his long nails against the skull’s cracked scalp. “A true immortal such as yourself is designed to siphon energy from external sources. But putting trust in others is risky… and must be done with caution. Or else you would have come to me sooner, yes? In any case, I imagine that choosing a supply for your power is akin to putting faith in a stranger.”

Sebastian was lightly intrigued. He had never ‘chosen’ where his power came from; he had just done whatever he’d wanted, conjuring up sweet foods and deadly weapons with the slightest inclination. There were limits to his magic, but he’d never given those limits much thought… which was really sort of embarrassing. _No reason for Undertaker to know that though._ “What sort of risks do you imagine come with choosing an external source of energy?”

Undertaker cackled softly. “Well... let’s say one had no knowledge of where their energy came from… they might find themselves… unintentionally manipulated.”

“Manipulated?” Sebastian's brow darkened. “Why? And how?”

“Consider... that you are growing soft for the little Phantomhive boy.” Undertaker spoke just above a whisper. “Your aura has always been drawn to his… but it is different now. You are more watchful of him. More protective.” He held the skull over his heart. “More fearful. That weakens your judgment. And it weakens you.”

Undertaker was right. Sebastian, again, would not let him know. “You speak as if you’ve already drawn a conclusion.”

“As I said, I only have theories,” Undertaker continued. “I almost regret sharing them with you… But I am too curious not to. So I begin by asking: do you, butler, know where it is you draw your power?”

Sebastian was not so easily won. “I can think of no reason why you require that information.”

Undertaker giggled. “There is no dire need for me to know the source. But you should worry if you don’t.” He cupped the skull in his palms like an apple. “Because you must ask yourself… Do you trust the source of your energy? Do you know it to be… safe? Pure? Can its magic alter your mind, for instance? Your thoughts? Enough to convince you that you care for the human child? Or… could someone else have access to that power source?”

Sebastian merely stared.

“The Earl has promised you something,” Undertaker said. His words were edged with a slyness. “An immortal such as yourself would have no interest in him otherwise. But if you really cared for the boy… you might not want that promised something very much anymore. And then…” Undertaker used the skull to block out his own visage. “Someone else could be free to take it.”

The dead kindling in the fireplace suddenly snapped ablaze.

Undertaker leapt up when his back felt the heat, but he was baying like a hyena. “Touched a nerve, I see!” he cackled loudly. “Am I right, then? Or is the idea enough to make you angry?” Undertaker reached up to his throat. “How comforted I am to be wearing rosary beads, heh, heh… I do believe you just invited Hell into this room… Oh my, leaving so soon?”

“I cannot confirm nor deny your claims,” Sebastian growled over his shoulder, “but I’ll be returning to my master now.”

“Ah, yes. Got to make sure no one’s laid a finger on his precious little head!” Undertaker crooned to the skull, for his guest was already out the door.

Though Sebastian moved with the swiftness of his ilk, his rage settled by the time he took his second step. At long last, there was a possible answer behind the sympathy beast. With answers came relief and confidence. What the Undertaker hypothesized made sense. Sebastian was no earthly creature, and so he was not confined to an earthly source of power. He was a vessel, not a producer. Therefore, it was reasonable to think that wherever he derived his dark magic, it was within an ethereal location that others could locate or tap into. Sebastian was a powerful demon, but there were others of a greater strength. Was it possible that, instead of hunting souls, there were demons who hunted other demons, took control of them, and then stole their contracted when the moment was right?

The English countryside peeled back from Sebastian’s quick stride. If that was the game, he would play into it no longer. He did not need to be afraid of these thoughts: they were not really his. And he would prove his independence from the sympathy beast by craving the soul twice as much. He would become closer to his master than ever before. And he would make it abundantly clear that nothing would get in the way of his meal.

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Sebastian tapped the bedroom door with his knuckles. He was not sure what kind of response to expect from the other side, but felt enthusiastic to face it, no matter what it was. He was reminded of the day, just five weeks ago, when Ciel had barred anyone from entering his bedroom, due to the nightmare that brought forth a wave of panic and shame. Sebastian had initially been angry then, too. Losing his temper hadn’t gotten him anywhere; apology and acceptance had. Apology and acceptance would do the trick today as well.

A few seconds after the subtle knock, Ciel responded. “What?” Flat, bitter, but otherwise hard to describe – it was a tone like watered-down coffee.

“My lord. May I enter?” Sebastian made sure his own voice was a perfect blend of serenity and sophistication, with a spoonful of penance for good measure.

There was more hesitation, but Sebastian was pleasantly surprised when he was allowed passage. “Fine.”

Sebastian closed the door gently after entering. He looked at Ciel, who was lying in bed with his arms clamped tightly across his chest. A pride swelled in Sebastian at the sight: this tortured, delectable soul was his and only his, and no one would take it away from him, no matter how they may try. Ciel, knowing nothing of the mortuary's prior drama, had a dull expression on his face, aimed at the opposing wall. He was using his pillows to prop himself up, two under his back and another tucked under his legs, which tended to get cramps from the exercise. His expression was hardened and fierce, but his cursed eye, which was currently uncovered, had an almost soft sheen over it.

This image harkened back to another memory, one from when Ciel was only eleven. Sebastian had been preparing lunch in the kitchen one Sunday afternoon when Finny had burst through the servants’ entrance, clutching Ciel in his arms. Finny was still learning English then, and he’d explained in hurried, sniveling German that Ciel had accidentally ridden his horse too close to the manor’s apiary and disturbed a hive and been stung. Finny had rescued him from the swarm and been stung too, and now stood in the kitchen, muddy and tear-streaked and blubbering on about how he hoped the young master would not perish.

Ciel was wide-eyed but quite coherent, so there had been no need for panic. Sebastian immediately marched Finny back outside, because both boys still had drones crawling over their clothes. Sebastian swatted them down, then instructed Finny to stand the young master to his feet so that he could sufficiently check for bees that might be hiding under Ciel’s riding jacket.

Ciel hadn’t made a sound since he was rescued, whether out of shock or a lack of anything to say. As the boy stood there silently, Sebastian’s hands whisking over his shirt, Finny asked in his unsteady (and sob-filled) English, “Why are you not crying? You are also hurt?”

“I’m too old to cry over something like this,” Ciel had answered in a quiet huff. Those were the first words he’d said since being stung, and he didn’t speak much more for the rest of the day either.

There had been only seven stings, despite the uproar. Sebastian had used baking soda paste and witch hazel to reduce the pain, and the boy had spent the rest of the day in his smallclothes in bed, applying ice to the welts and drinking chamomile tea. Sebastian had checked on him frequently to apply more salve and bring him books. Each time he came in, Ciel’s jaw had been clenched firm and his gaze far-off. He didn’t cry, just as he claimed he wouldn’t – but there had been a pitiful, strained look on his face for the rest of the day. It was a look that Sebastian had before only acquainted with humans who had been denied something they craved, such as when a confession of love was not reciprocated. The expression was a combination of sadness and shame that Sebastian had not understood at the time, nor did he now. But unlike three years ago, Sebastian felt the need to make sense of it today.

He could not start by asking something so bold though. He had already been bold once today; he had to make amends for that first.

Sebastian walked until he was three feet from the bed before bowing deep and cordially. “My lord. I imagine you are appalled with my behavior earlier. I should deserve such disapproval. It was outside of my position to be so forthright. Therefore, I will not ask for your forgiveness – I will merely consider myself lucky if you so choose to award it.”

It was easier to apologize for speaking out of turn than it was to apologize for overreacting: the first was a fact, the other a confession.

Ciel made a noise in his throat. “Whatever. It isn’t as if I can dismiss you or anything anyway.”

Dismissal, no, but punishment was certainly not off the table. Ciel knew that. Sebastian inclined his head but kept his posture bowed as he said, “It isn’t just my disrespect that I need apologize for, young master. I was not a proper teacher to you. Without thinking, I failed to make your success at jockeying known. I have been most unexemplary today.”

“What success?” the boy snorted, finally looking at him. “I’m not good at it at all.”

Sebastian straightened, shook his head. “That isn’t true, sir. You have been working very hard, and have improved enormously since your first attempt – two hundred percent, if you simply consider how long you can stay risen above the saddle. And your form’s accuracy is entirely better.”

Ciel turned away again. “Fine. But I know you didn’t come here just to atone. So get on with it already.”

Sebastian chewed this over for a second. “It is, indeed, why I came, young master. I have no ulterior motive.” He tapped his chin with his index finger. “Though… Since I am here, and since the young master has invited further discussion, I am curious as to why you wanted so badly to ride Avalon.”

“I thought I said that didn’t matter!” Ciel snarled. “Some apology that was, if you’re just going to continue questioning my choices anyway!”

“You don’t need to tell me, sir. That is up to you.” Sebastian made sure to keep his voice kind. “Frankly, I think your decision does matter – all your decisions matter, as they matter to you. May I at least ask to understand your thoughts?”

“… Did you see Bard on your way up to my room?” Ciel asked suddenly, suspiciously.

Sebastian blinked. “I did not.”

“Oh.” Ciel’s expression relaxed a trifle, though he still frowned. He shifted his legs on their pillow. After a quiet moment, he responded. “Avalon is a horse. Horses are meant to be ridden. I wanted to see how he handled. That was all.”

“Even though Bard told you it was not yet safe to do so?” Sebastian asked.

Ciel stiffened. Evidently, he didn’t think Sebastian knew that much. “… I dunno.”

“You don’t know?”

The boy picked up his eye patch, which had been resting on the bed beside him, and wound the strings between his fingers. “That’s what I said, isn’t it?” he growled.

Sebastian took in a long breath through his nose. “You’re saying that you didn’t have a reason for deciding to ride Avalon, despite the warning it would be dangerous, then?”

Ciel sank lower on the pillow and honed his attention on the patch. “You don’t have to make me out like some sort of idiot.”

“I don’t mean to ‘make you out like some sort of idiot,’ young master. I’m only trying to be sure of what you’re telling me. I think it is unusual for you to do anything without a purpose in mind. And I recognize your interest in this particular horse and his rehabilitation. You’ve been joining Bard almost every day to assist in it.” The pieces began to slide into place. “… You rode Avalon because you thought it would be helpful to him somehow, didn’t you?”

“Well I sure as hell didn’t do it to make him miserable.” Ciel sounded almost miserable himself.

“You thought that riding him might make him his old self again,” Sebastian realized as he said it. “Perhaps that he would remember his purpose, if put to the test… Am I correct, my lord?”

Ciel shrugged loosely. “So what if you are?”

Sebastian smiled lightly. “If so, it is more proof that I vastly misjudged you, and more proof that you deserve my sincerest apologies. I took you off of Avalon’s back based on my own assumptions. I should have trusted you to know better than to put yourself in danger without care or thought. If your motivation was indeed to help Avalon, I should have respected your decision. At the very least, I could have spoken to you before I acted. Then I could have helped you in your goal, instead of immediately assuming you did wrong.”

The eye patch’s string was threaded between each finger of Ciel’s left hand. Ciel tugged it free and rubbed at the soft leather cord with his thumbs. “I don’t even care about that anymore. You were right and I was wrong, so you may as well stop with all that gracious talk. It’s making me sick.”

Sebastian’s brow furrowed. “Beg your pardon, my lord?”

Ciel huffed and swung his legs over the ledge of the bed. He began rolling the ankle of his right pant leg up past his knee and then tugged down a white stocking. Sebastian was confused, until he saw the purple blossom. “Avalon kicked me when I went to his stall to see him later. So you were right, he hates me, and it was stupid of me to go near him.”

Sebastian closed the gap between them at once. He crouched down and twisted the leg around carefully in his hands. On the fatty part behind and below the knee, a bruise the color and width of a plum had formed. No wonder the boy had been lying in bed, that was sure to be swollen… Though, all things considered, Avalon could have done a lot more damage, especially considering the horse already associated stalls with danger. Fortunately, Ciel made no sounds of pain as Sebastian studied the area, and the bruising was minimal. But this did explain the boy’s wounded spirit. “Young master…”

Ciel swung the leg out of his gloved hands. “Don’t give me your pity. You were right, act like it.”

Sebastian had to give a half-smirk at that. “This isn’t something I wanted to be right about, young master.”

“You always like proving me wrong, though.”

“Always? That might be a bit much, even for me.” Sebastian stood, went into the adjoining bathroom, and came back with a hot, damp washcloth, which he wrapped around the bruised area before placing the leg back on the pillow to keep it elevated. Ciel had his chin ducked and was glaring expectantly, daringly, for any mockery that might come his way. “If it wasn’t already obvious,” Sebastian said instead, “your getting hurt isn’t something I take enjoyment from.”

Ciel rocked his foot from side to side, watching its pendulous sway from his position at the headboard. “It’s not really much of a bruise.”

“No,” Sebastian agreed, “I imagine your pride took more of a blow.”

Ciel’s eyes tightened. “It was my fault, I deserved it. Whatever.”

“Maybe it was your fault,” Sebastian began, “just as it was my fault that I made you angry. And you responded just as Avalon did, yes? With an attack. So it seems we both learned something about staying within our boundaries today.”

It was quiet for a moment. Then Ciel asked, “Do you think that Avalon really killed Northcott?”

“I know as much as you do… but I do not.” Sebastian took another glimpse at the washcloth on Ciel’s calf. “Avalon clearly knows what power he has in his hooves, and how to exact that power. If he wanted to, he could have done more damage. Much more.” Ciel winced; Sebastian couldn’t help being a little pleased to see evidence of future caution. Still, the bruise was enough of a lesson. “He could have, but he didn’t. And I have trouble believing Avalon would murder his master, yet show benevolence to someone he had known for only a short while.”

A corner of Ciel’s mouth lifted slightly. “That’s some relatively recent knowledge. Do you really think I would have bought the horse if I thought he was a killer?”

Sebastian decided to humor him. “And what was the young master’s reasoning then?”

“After Undertaker said Northcott died of blunt force trauma, at first I thought maybe I was wrong and Avalon was the murderer. But why would a horse kill someone and then panic because they were dead?” Ciel snorted. “Maybe it’s fine for a demon like you, but us normal creatures aren’t going to choose to be in a small space with a corpse.”

Sebastian closed his eyes with a light smirk. “… Indeed. A human’s reasoning has perhaps outdone mine today.” Sebastian had gathered this much himself, but there was no reason to say so. It was not worth sacrificing the notion that he and Ciel were on fair terms once more.

Ciel was doing cat’s cradle with his eye patch again and then said, with barely-masked curiosity, “So… I’m okay at jockeying, is that so? That is, I’m not terrible?”

“You know I can’t tell lies, young master.”

Ciel rolled his eyes. “Yes, obviously, but you can embellish. I want a serious answer out of you. Just say yes or no. If I keep practicing for the next two weeks, do you really think that I’ll succeed at Hastings’ competition?”

Sebastian was pleased with his answer that came without hesitation. “Yes.”

Ciel studied Sebastian for any signs that he might have cheated the question. Eventually, deciding there were no loopholes, Ciel dipped his chin in acceptance. “Fine, then. I concede. I’ll keep doing this damn training.” Right after saying so, he slouched bitterly. “Even though it’s one of the most tedious and exhausting things I’ve ever been put to… Ugh. I can’t believe I just agreed to more of this! I must be mental!”

“The Queen will be delighted with your efforts, I’m sure,” Sebastian said quaintly. “But for the rest of the day, I believe you should stay in bed, so your leg can recover as much as possible before you return to horseback.”

“Mm.” Sebastian removed the washcloth from Ciel’s leg, dampened it with more hot water, and returned the compress to its place. “I saw the tea in the hallway, by the way,” Ciel said, laying his leg back on the pillow when Sebastian was through. “And the cake.”

“Ah, yes, I nearly forgot about that. Would you like me to heat up the tea and bring you the snack?”

“No need. I already finished the cake,” Ciel said, and at Sebastian’s shocked expression, burst, “What?!”

“You’re speaking as if you ate the whole thing!” Sebastian tutted.

Ciel looked incredulous. “It was my cake, wasn’t it?!”

“My lord, it wasn’t a small cake…”

“It wasn’t that big either!”

This whole afternoon was a prime example of why most fourteen-year-old boys were not the bosses of their own lives. “That much sugar is certainly terrible for your body.”

“This jockey business is terrible for my body,” Ciel shot back with fierce delight. He folded his hands behind his head. “I’ve been working too hard for too little of a reward. You said so yourself you haven’t been encouraging me enough. Let me have this one thing. _Qu’ils mangent de la brioche_.”

Sebastian shook his head, taking his leave as Ciel waved him off. ‘Let them eat cake.’ It was not a quote meant to be applied so literally. Centuries ago, it came to represent the French royals’ blunt misunderstanding of their people and their peoples’ hunger.

Sebastian licked at his fangs, sheathed beneath his lips. He didn’t want Ciel to understand his hunger either. And he certainly wasn’t going to let anyone take his bread away.

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Thus, training commenced the very next morning. The weather that had been almost unbelievably fair for England in April finally took a turn towards the usual rain. Sebastian built a sort of roof over the racetrack to keep the dirt (and Ciel) dry, but that couldn’t help the damp chill in the air. Ciel wore two sweaters on those cold days – the last thing he needed right now was to get sick – and he tucked his chin in the top one’s collar as they rode out to the track.

“It was so much warmer in bed,” he whined, tucking his sleeves around his fingers to form mittens as best he could.

“And despite that, you came out to practice anyway,” Sebastian reminded. “Not an easy thing to do, I’m sure.”

Ciel shrugged. “Well, I don’t really have a choice.”

“Of course you do, my lord. And you chose to do the more difficult activity.”

“I mean I don’t have a choice if I want to do well in the race.” Ciel eyed him narrowly. “You’re laying the praise on way too thick. It’s weird from you, you know.”

“My apologies, my lord.”

“Calm down. Just focus on if I’m actually doing well. I don’t need any mock flattery.”

“That wasn’t mockery, young master. I meant what I said, that you–”

“Ugh… Seriously, shut up.”

But Sebastian persevered with his compliments, honing them as he would any skill. He was swiftly amazed at the magic of words. He had always considered it rather laughable that humans were so desperate for attention and approval that you could dangle it before them, like a chicken bone above a starving mutt. Sebastian had made contracts with those who coveted approval. These people became fast insatiable. But in controlled amounts, and with the proper wording, Sebastian now saw how a human could reach their full potential through incantation alone.

“You lasted two seconds more than the last time. Good.”

“That was your longest run yet. You should be quite pleased.”

“Remember, keep your arms off of the neck… Like that, yes. Well done.”

“And again, just like before… Very good. Your form has become impeccable, young master.”

“Wonderful work this morning, sir. My goodness, look at the time; surely you’ll be wanting to take a break? I think you’ve more than earned it.”

 “I’m… fine,” Ciel panted, half-smiling and wiping at his brow. “Just give me… a minute. I’ll be ready to go again. I bet I can reach fifteen seconds today. I don’t want to leave until I do it.”

“Quite ambitious,” Sebastian mused. “I wonder, can it be done?”

“It can be done,” Ciel returned. “It definitely can.”

Sebastian raised his chin. “Well, why don’t you show me, then?”

And Ciel did.

Despite the newfound enthusiasm, Sebastian did not increase the amount of time Ciel trained above three hours. “You’ll overwork your muscles and do more harm than good,” he explained. “Already the exercises you’re doing would be too much, but the daily repetition is a necessity. We’ll just have to keep the regimen to a minimum instead.”

After practice, there was still plenty of time in the day, time that Ciel had once filled with Avalon’s training. Since being kicked, he tended to retire to his room or his office or the library. When Sebastian brought tea to the study one afternoon, the boy was peering out the window at Bard, who was training Avalon in the paddocks below. By the time Sebastian reached the desk, Ciel had pulled away but hadn’t manage to hide the longing in his eyes.

“Missing your old pastime, my lord?” he asked as he handed over the cup and saucer.

Ciel sniffed, shrugged. “Doesn’t matter if I did. I already messed up once, I don’t need to make things even worse.”

“Hmm.” Sebastian placed an apricot flummery on the tabletop, made using some of the evaporated milk Agni had left behind. “Do you not suppose the situation can be remedied?”

Ciel shrugged again. “I scared him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d run at the sight of me.”

“Perhaps,” Sebastian said, “or perhaps not. It is natural for a horse to frighten – otherwise, Scotland Yard wouldn’t have been so quick to define Avalon as his own master’s killer. If you try again, on the horse’s terms, I imagine he will accept you.”

Ciel considered this over a spoonful of pudding. “I wouldn’t like anyone who scared me,” he grumbled. He rolled his eyes over. “And before you make any jokes, no, I’m not scared of you.”

That thought hadn’t crossed his mind, and Sebastian laughed low in his throat. “Consider it this way,” he said next. “If someone did scare you, on accident, and then they came to you with every bit of an honest apology… How would you respond?”

“Doesn’t matter if the apology is honest. They’re probably an idiot, and I wouldn’t trust them not to try it again,” Ciel said, too quickly and probably too triumphantly. “I wouldn’t tell them that, though. I’d pretend it was all water under the bridge, and hate them secretly.”

“… Well,” Sebastian continued, “I doubt such complexities exist in the mind of a horse. But I’ll leave it up to you, whether or not you approach Avalon again.”

The next afternoon, while Sebastian was sharpening Finny’s gardening shears by the greenhouse, he observed from a distance as Ciel tentatively, sheepishly, asked Bard if he could help with Avalon’s rehabilitation again.

“O-Of course, sir! Absolutely!” Bard scratched at the nape of his neck. “How’s that leg of yours doing, by the way? I mean, I don’t think Avalon would kick you again, I’ve been workin’ ’im good n’ close out there, he’ll let me pet his neck these days… But, eh, I’m only thinkin’ that it would be best if, eh… That is… If I made sure, uh…”

Ciel caught on to the hesitation. “I’ll do whatever you tell me to do. I won’t ask to ride Avalon or anything.” Then it was Ciel’s turn to hesitate. “… I’m sorry that I did before.”

“Eh?! Um, no, that’s-! You don’t hafta apologize for nothin’, young master!” Bard’s cigarette actually fell out of his mouth as he blathered, waving his arms about. “It’s your horse, sir, you can do what you like with ’im! I just wanted you to be right n’ safe was all!”

Ciel glowered. “I _know_ , that’s why I apologized. Just accept it already.”

“Eh, right! I’m sorry! I mean, thank you! I mean… it’s no trouble? … Blimey, young master, I don’t rightly know what to say. Is there etiquette for somethin’ like this?”

The only thing Ciel had a true smile for these days was honesty, and Sebastian had observed the boy smile at that, too. Sebastian felt his own mouth mimic the expression as he turned back to his task.

He was smiling because he wanted to, of course – sympathy beast be damned.

In the entire month of training for the competition, there was but one day Ciel went without practice. This was the day that Nina came to give him his new wardrobe. It was also the day that Lizzie visited, as Ciel had promised he’d see her again before May Day. The two appointments were combined for convenience, but it worked out swimmingly, as Lizzie loved to see Ciel all dressed up.

“You still haven’t cut your hair!” she exclaimed upon arrival, reaching for the strands that were getting a little too far past his earlobes. She covered her smiling mouth with both fists. “Mother would be so mad if she knew!”

“Don’t tell her, please,” Ciel groaned. “I don’t need Aunt Francis coming here and threatening to chop it off with one of her sabers.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say a word!” Lizzie promised. “I think it looks very dashing, anyway! I like it!”

“It’s not how I like my hair to be,” Ciel said, taking her hand away from his head and guiding her up the stairs to the front doors of the Phantomhive manor. “I’m growing it out for a mission for the Queen. I’ll cut it when the mission’s over.”

Sebastian, in their wake, stifled a laugh. Ciel had definitely come up with that on the spot.

Lizzie’s response was the opposite of good humor. “A mission? Is it soon?” she asked, sadness and worry lining her tone like the lace on her two-piece day dress.

“Yes. That’s why I wanted to see you today. Because I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”

“You don’t know how long you’ll be gone?” Ciel stopped in the front doorway as Lizzie took his other hand in hers. “But it’s the social season,” she fretted. “Does that mean you’re not going to the Chambers’ annual game bird feast next week?”

Ciel sighed heavily. “I imagine that’s exactly what it means, Lizzie.”

“Hnnnn…” she pouted. “I guess missing just that one’s all right… but you _will_ be back in time for the Ascot, won’t you?”

From his side of the door, Sebastian saw Ciel flinch irritably. The idea of living as a jockey for an entire month was surely nightmarish. “If I’m not back by then… ugh. I’d rather not think about it.”

“What do you mean?” Lizzie could only assume the worst. “Are you going to be in danger?”

“Ah, um, no. At least, not more than usual, I should think,” Ciel said quickly. “Eh… Probably less than usual, to be honest… It’s just going to be… Tedious. I can’t tell you much more than that.”

Lizzie had picked up her fiancé’s habit of searching for honesty in the faces of others, and she did so now. Finally, she managed a small smile. “All right. Good… I just want you to be safe, you know. To come back in one piece…” She was looking at his eye patch as she said it.

“I’ll be fine. Nothing to worry for.” Ciel did away with the topic by leading her into the entrance hall. “Sebastian has tea and pastries for us up in the drawing room. Come, let’s take it while it’s still hot. We’ll want to have eaten before Nina gets here anyway.”

Lizzie had feigned a happy atmosphere for Ciel’s sake when she heard about his mission, but her joy was genuine when Nina arrived. The girl leapt out of her chair when the woman entered the room. “Nina! I’ve missed you!”

“And I you, _ma chère!_ _”_ Nina hurried over to the tea table in a swirl of navy skirts and pecked the girl gently on the cheek before stepping back to admire her dress. “Ah, yes! Crepe silk, white trim, lace ruche, and velvet bows… I made this for a boat race last summer, did I not? It’s a shame that your mother insists on such conservative fashions, but no one wears them more prettily than you, my dear. But this bodice is nearly too small for you now! Next time I tailor your dresses, I shall have to be sure to give a few extra inches for your chest to grow into.”

“Nina! Don’t say things like that!” Lizzie laughed, embarrassed. Whatever hue of pink her face turned, Ciel’s was easily three shades darker.

“You’ll thank me, if you’re anything like I was,” Nina said, putting her hands on her hips and puffing out her own chest as she said so. “But, unfortunately, we’re not here for you today. _Mon lapin!_ ” She went over to Ciel’s side next and kissed him on his reddened cheek, too. “I spent a little time in Paris a few weeks ago, and it set my heart aflame! It inspired me as only Parisian couture can. The House of Worth… The up-and-coming House of Paquin… All awash in the bloodiest reds and the richest blacks! And Miss Paquin herself, oh, a woman after my own heart… And the artists of _La Mode! Suprême élégance_ , indeed!※ Ahh… All that to say that my osmosis of French talent has granted you the wardrobe I bring today! Tell me you are not satisfied, Earl.”

Sebastian had been a bit apprehensive to see Nina’s creations, as the childish fashions inspired by Little Lord Fauntleroy were all the rage right now. Such a style would not become his growing master. But Nina had more than come through for them.

Sebastian had carried up the trunks for her, and from inside the treasure boxes she displayed cross ties and string ties, ribbons and cravats, some simple in their colors and others bearing stunning patterns to brighten up an otherwise drab outfit: imperial trellis in blue and cream; ogee, a repeating turnip-shaped pattern, in black and navy; braided frieze on emerald. A series of gorgeous vests were presented next. Two single-breasted jacquard vests came first, one in ivy green with art nouveau leaves, the other in black cherry with gold quatrefoil. A kingsley vest with shawl lapels, a penworth-style with Baroque foliage, and a gold thread brocatelle waistcoat with twill figuring on beige dazzled them next. More subdued options for home included brown and dove Bengal striped silk, gray wool with glen checking, and brown brushed cotton. Each vest came with matching trousers and a tailcoat, the majority of the coats in the Regency style that Ciel preferred.

The most glorious piece was a black cavalier vest with indigo tapestry damask, appearing as brightly blue as Sirius in the night sky. Even Ciel could not hide his delight with it. It was mature and brilliant, and eye-catching without being too gaudy. Sebastian had Ciel dressed in each item to make certain of their fit, all of which passed, thanks to Nina’s precision, but it was well enough that Lizzie got to experience the fashion show.

“You look so handsome!” she’d cry, or, “Oh! Now I wish we were going to a party tonight!” or, “Nina, please make me something to match that! It’s _beautiful!_ ”

Nina was glowing with self-importance (she kept making gloating eyes at Sebastian, which he pretended not to notice). “I knew they would be just right, of course. Though…” And here she narrowed her eyes sharply at Ciel. “I can’t help but see that, even a short five weeks later, you are… Different.”

Ciel blinked as Sebastian slid his arms out of a burgundy sovereign tailcoat. “Different how?”

“You’re building muscle!” she tsked. “No doubt you’re taking advantage of the outdoors too much! Stop getting so much exercise! It’s changing your frame! And your thin proportions are so much more beautiful, anyway. Do us all a favor and retain them.”

Ciel had only seemed to hear the first sentence. “I have more muscle than last time?”

“Yes!” Nina scolded. “The average eye may not notice it, but nothing gets past me!”

Ciel glanced over at Lizzie, as if wondering something, but she herself was lost in thought.

Nina left soon after receiving the cheque for her winning work. Lizzie stayed for the rest of the afternoon. She was not a girl who liked to sit still, and though she had fortunately stopped wanting to adorn everything in the manor with a bow, she was still someone Ciel made efforts to keep up with. At first Ciel asked if they could play jackstraws, because he was tired of moving around so much, getting in and out of clothes. It seemed Lizzie could only comply for a few rounds, because Sebastian was with them outside only forty minutes later, choosing flowers from the garden for book-pressing. Sebastian was tasked to properly cut them from their stems, but even that activity quickly lost its interest to Lizzie when she saw Bard training Avalon in the paddocks. She sped over to get a closer look, Ciel in her wake. Sebastian held the forgotten bouquet as Ciel pointed at his horse. He was likely explaining to her what Bard was doing, as Lizzie was watching him with rapt attention.

“I wish I could stay for dinner, but Mother insisted I be back by then,” she said as they delivered her to her waiting carriage. She took Ciel’s hands in her own again. “I had so much fun today. Is it really going to be so long before I see you again?”

“I don’t know. I hope not,” Ciel said. “I don’t like when a mission takes more than a few days of my time. Those days are usually very taxing.”

“I like it best when I know you’re home,” Lizzie said. She blushed lightly. “Whenever you’re off working for the Queen, I think of you. Even more than I already do. I think of how much I want you to be safe and come back to me.”

Ciel still balked at the poetry of true romance, so at least his manners were passably Shakespearean. “I hate to know I worry you. I promise to take extra care, for your sake, so don’t trouble your heart.”

Lizzie shook her head. “Oh, Ciel, don’t you know? That’s the way a woman’s heart is for the one she loves. I couldn’t tell it to do anything _but_ worry.”

Now Ciel did balk. “Oh, well… That’s… I’m… Fortunate to have your… fondness.”

Sebastian could have clapped a hand over his own face in exasperation. Lizzie took the tongue-tied speech well. She kissed Ciel on the cheek shyly before ascending the carriage steps. “Be sure to write me as soon as you are home,” she called, and then the carriage took off into the sunset world.

Once the vehicle was out of sight, Ciel turned back for the stairs, a very hot flush taking over his face for the second time that day. Sebastian just _had_ to tease him. As far as he knew, that was the first kiss Ciel had received from his fiancé, even if that kiss was best defined as ‘chaste.’ “My lord shall have all the luck he needs for his mission now, yes?”

Ciel hunched his shoulders, growing redder as he climbed the steps. “Luck! With you around, there is no luck! Just bloody talent that I still pay for in humiliation!”

“My, my, I’ve never seen someone so unhappy to be kissed by his betrothed.”

“I’m not–! Sh-Shut up! I’m unhappy with you!”

“Oh, dear. Would you please tell me what it is specifically that I have done wrong, sir?”

“As of right now,” the boy snapped, “what you’ve done wrong is exist! Now go make dinner, and be quick about it. And it had better be something delicious.”

“Yes, my lord. I'll get right on it.”

How odd, that Sebastian should not feel so rewarded by the teasing as he thought he would feel. Oh, well… he _had_ been working hard on his compliments lately. The young master was likely overdue for a little ribbing. It was best that Ciel did not suspect things were any different between them anyway.

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“Hey, this isn’t the way to the track. Where are you taking us?”

“Have patience. You’ll soon see.”

The day before the competition glittered with dew and sunshine. It was into this jewelry box of a world that Sebastian led Sysonby by his bridle, down the dirt roads of flowering trees and liquid gold puddles that caught the light of early morning. Down and up and down the roads of an earl’s lands they went, past fields of farmers and old ponies, both with heads bowed, tilling their soil while the air was cooler. The lower classes of the world always learned to look down, at the earth or at their hands, stooping, deferring. The farm children had yet to pick up this lesson. From a distance, they did not recognize their county’s earl while he was dressed in brown trousers and wool, and so they stared unabashedly at the sleek ebony butler who guided the horse of a boy who could just as well be one of them.

The sun was still bright, but a gray-blue tinge on the horizon threatened an afternoon of storms. “Seriously, how much farther?” Ciel groaned after twenty minutes of this trek.

“Nearly there now.” The main road forked off at every farmer’s residence, and a minute later, Sebastian lead Ciel down one of those forks. “There were only so many locations I could pick from that fit the bill. Not a lot of choice land stays abandoned for long outside London.”

“There’s only one piece of land in this county that goes unwanted,” Ciel said as they ascended a small hill. The road here had not been tamped by hooves or wheels in some time, and Mother Nature had half-reclaimed it. “The old Durnin tobacco farm. I’ve actually never been here before. Funny, when I think about how much my father and Aunt Francis used to talk about it when I was little.”

A small, dilapidated cottage with a thatched roof came into view. “What sorts of things would they say, sir?”

“I remember they were always angry at the Durnins. At least, Aunt Francis was.” Ciel looked about at the rugged green grass in the yard that was allowed to grow wild. “The Durnins planted tobacco without asking my father’s permission first. Usually we allow the farmers to plant what they want, but tobacco is hard on the soil. It drains all the nutrients right out of it. Aunt Francis was upset, because she knew the Durnins would make their fortune and then leave four years later, and we wouldn’t be able to pawn off the grounds to anyone else. Father was annoyed but more fair. I think he asked them for some of their profits.” Ciel sniffed a laugh. “Come to think of it, he did always have a new box of cigars ready whenever we had guests.”

The front yard was the opposite of the empty tobacco fields they came to next. Nothing grew here, and nothing could, not for years and years until the soil’s nutrients were sufficiently replenished. To find a new renter would be nigh impossible, just as Ciel’s predecessor had predicted. Ironic, then, that the useless farmland should benefit no one but the Phantomhive heir today.

There were many reasons Sebastian had chosen the old Durnin property for its assigned task. It was flat. It was without owner. It was long. It could be converted into a perfect strip of track, without the pockmarks or subtle turns and bumps any public road would have. This was what Sebastian had done with the land: groomed down the spent soil so it was just right for running a horse on, without worrying about it tripping and hurting itself or its rider.

There was not sufficient space on the Phantomhive grounds to allow for such a straight track of that length. Ciel knew this, and he knew what the track was made for. It was given as a statement, then, not a question, when he said, “So I run this as far as I can.”

“And I will follow alongside,” Sebastian confirmed.

Practice was over now. This was the final test. It was time to ride fast, and true.

Wordlessly, Ciel positioned his dark stallion at the beginning of the track. It was not fenced, like his track at home was, but it was wide enough that Sysonby wouldn’t easily veer off-course. Sysonby was sensing something in this stillness, something important, and he grew tense with readiness, as a grasshopper before it springs. As soon as he heard Ciel cry, “Ha!” and flick the reins about his face, Sysonby ran like he was born to it.

Sebastian kept pace. Ciel had never ridden at this speed before, and if the boy faltered, he would be sure to catch him. But Ciel stayed steady, and fiercely attentive to what he was doing. He hovered just above the saddle, but his knees were pulled high over Sysonby’s back, almost tented together. He held his arms parallel to the neck and hunched low over it, practically breathing into the mane. Only his feet and ankles were touching the horse now.

Five seconds… ten… fifteen… twenty... and at twenty-three seconds, all of Ciel’s strength shivered out of him at once and he drooped in the saddle like a scarecrow. Sebastian was ready. He caught at Sysonby’s reins and slowed the horse to a gentle stop. Before Sebastian could say a word, the boy’s ragdoll body was sliding into his arms, heaving with exertion. Ciel gave a hard cough.

“My lord, are you all right?” Sebastian would not soon forget the asthma attack.

Fortunately, Ciel nodded weakly. “Just… exhausted… I’m… fine…” Still he spent a whole minute doing nothing but breathe, his eyelids shut, sweat and goose bumps spreading wherever his flesh was bare. Sysonby had felt the rigor of the exercise too. His nostrils gusted out great clouds as he caught his breath. Finally Ciel looked up at Sebastian, and his blue eye sparked like flint with pride. “How was that?” he could scarcely say.

“Magnificent, sir,” Sebastian said. “Truly the magnum opus of your efforts. But I think you may need to push yourself a little less far tomorrow.”

“Yeah, I think so too… Ugh. Put me down. I feel like I’m going to retch.” Sebastian did so, and Ciel crouched in the dirt, made a bit of a choking sound, but then recovered. After another minute of rest, he looked at Sebastian again with that same molten eyeful of satisfaction. “I bet you didn’t think I could do so well,” he panted, and laughed dryly. “I bet you thought I’d just get a little better… or that I’d give up… But I didn’t… I showed you… I showed you…” Then Ciel did spit up onto the dead soil. He dragged the back of his hand shakily over his lips. Laughed throatily again. “… Admit it. You thought I would give up, didn’t you?”

Sebastian considered it best not to mention all the times _Ciel_ said he would give up, as well as the one time he actually did. He held out his hand. “The young master has most certainly outdone my expectations.”

“To be honest,” Ciel admitted, reaching up so Sebastian could carry him home, “I outdid my own expectations, too.”

Within minutes, the boy was asleep, and the thing that would rouse him from bed three hours later was the smell of a celebratory Manchester tart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ※: This paragraph is basically just Nina rambling about Paris and isn't terribly important, but if you are interested in a small explanation, the House of Worth and House of Paquin were both design establishments for haute couture. Jeanne Paquin was very new to the fashion world at the time, and a female designer who would go on to make great strides in marketing, and I feel Nina would recognize the brilliance even in her early work. Meanwhile, _La Mode_ was an illustrated fashion magazine, which seemed to caption most of its drawings with "suprême élégance." They might have been just getting their legs in 1890, I couldn't quite tell, but in the case of these small details, I really don't care too much.
> 
> Another aside: For Ciel to have the monkey crouch down pat in a month would be kind of ridiculous, even though he struggles with it still. But I was definitely allowing myself to make use of the anime principle that main characters get good at stuff way faster than normal people. So it's fine, it's fiiiiine.


	13. The Gather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So!
> 
> Chapters thirteen and fourteen were a teacher and a challenge. There was a lot more research and technical writing in these chapters than any other, and it was real work to craft. I loved that it was a challenge - but it also wasn't the sort of thing I could come home from work and just let flow, hence why it took so long. I thought having an arc with a heavier plot would make things easier for me, but I swiftly learned, it's hard! I feel as if I have a glimpse of what it's like to be Yana now: you can't stop once you're in the middle of it all, so you have to hope your arc is one you'll enjoy too. Fortunately, I am. But it is hard.
> 
> I decided to have Hastings live in Banstead due to some of its history, which will become more clear in the fifteenth chapter. I used a map from the 1850s to help plot things out, which is dated even by Black Butler's timeline, but like... no one cares. In any case, [these](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/3/39/Map_of_Banstead_1841_Lambert.png) [images](https://78.media.tumblr.com/be75db441a2bf12624223fa1b84a29fe/tumblr_pb9yu7u3Ic1wjgjkxo1_400.png) might be helpful to you, especially [this one](https://78.media.tumblr.com/4cd3d99e23465634e160fe393497f637/tumblr_pb9yu7u3Ic1wjgjkxo2_1280.png).
> 
> As for the chapter title, the "gather" is when a sheepdog goes out and brings the sheep in to the handler for a specific purpose. If you enjoyed, please consider leaving a review! Thank you for your patience!

When it came to travel, Sebastian was the fastest mode of transport Ciel possessed. However, Ciel, being of a practical nature, in most cases insisted they take a coach wherever it was they were going.

“I don’t need anyone troubling me with questions about you,” he’d said at nearly the beginning of their contract. “That’ll just come back to bite me later. Besides, people might pay attention to how I get places, if I arrive really quickly or mysteriously. No, we’ll take carriages and look as normal as possible, and then we won’t have to worry so much.”

The exceptions to this rule were when fleeing danger, at times when no one would see them, or, as it was today, a time when they didn’t want to be identified. Should anyone suspect Ciel and “Astre” were the same person, spying a Phantomhive carriage at all near Gwilym Hastings’ residence would be quite a tip-off.

“Astre is an interesting choice of alias,” Sebastian had commented early that morning while dressing the boy in his East End guise.

“Isn’t it?” Ciel tugged at the loose collar of his gray shirt and pulled the thin wool vest across his frame. “My parents considered a number of nontraditional names for me, and apparently Astre was one of them.”

“I see. Trying it on for size, then, are we?”

“As if!” Ciel sniffed, and then shook his head. “Astre is hardly the worst of them. My parents also considered calling me ‘Celeste,’ ‘Estelle,’ and ‘Angel.’ Aunt Francis must have wanted to strangle them, she can’t stand anything even mildly bohemian. I mean, can you imagine? _Angel?_ Forget the irony of having you around, I don’t think I could possibly stand it. Thank God they settled on Ciel.”

Sebastian put a hand to his chin. “Hmm. All of those names are related to the cosmos.”

“Yeah. I think my parents were kind of eccentric in their own way.” Ciel turned around so Sebastian could tie on his eye patch. “Anyway, I’m going with Astre Renault, so put it to memory.” He adjusted the string around the back of his head when Sebastian finished with the knot. “Did you decide what you're going to call yourself yet?”

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Like Mr. Northcott, Gwilym Hastings lived on the cusp of Surrey just outside Greater London, in the rural town of Banstead. A map was provided on the back of the competition poster, but Sebastian had the way memorized. He had been there several times already.

The night before Ciel’s jockey training began, Sebastian visited the Hastings residence for the first time, to see if he could deduce anything unusual. Alas, he did not. Hastings had not been home. Nor was he home the following night, or the night after that. And the staff that maintained his quaint stone manor did not gossip about a racetrack, even in lowest whispers.

The stable hands had the closest thing to an answer. This Sebastian discovered on his final visit to Hastings’, which he attended in-person. He had donned his own East End disguise, composed of cotton trousers, lace-up boots, and a white collared shirt with a pinstriped amber vest over it. Amber was not his color, but that was part of what sold the appearance. A lower-class vagabond could not afford to buy clothes that always matched his summer or winter palette.

“Good morning,” Sebastian had called as he’d stepped into the Hastings’ stable. He’d bowed to the stable master and the teenaged hand that he knew were inside. The two blinked at him curiously, pausing the swat of their brooms on the hay-covered floor. “Please do pardon my intrusion. You’re just the gentlemen I was looking for. May I have a word? Or shall I come back later?”

The stable master, a short, burly man with a mustache resembling his push broom, tipped up the shepherd’s cap higher on his forehead. “Depends. What’re you needin’?”

Sebastian smiled and from behind his back drew out one of the posters for the competition. “I, like most of South England, are quite intrigued by the prospects presented on this advertisement.”

The stable master interrupted before Sebastian could get any farther. “That competition’s for li’l boys. Not grown-up men like y’self. Sorry.”

Sebastian chuckled. “I’m well aware, my good man. But when it comes to finding work, I consider myself somewhat of an opportunist. And when I look at this poster, I see more than a competition: I see a job. You’ll find few more talented than myself at both handling skittish horses _and_ rowdy young men, on top of anything else you might need. A jack of all trades, if you will, and master of most. So, how may I be of service?”

The stable master and assistant exchanged a brief glance. The younger returned to sweeping. “Well, it’s not up to me to take on hires,” the stable master answered with a shrug. “Only Mr. Hastings decides on who works here, and he won’t be back till the day of the competition.”

“I see.” Sebastian put a hand to his chin. “I’m surprised he’s away from home right now.”

The stable master started sweeping again too, dismissive. “Aye, he’s off in the north, doin’ some research. In Manchester, Liverpool, Nottingham. Lookin’ for where he might want to take the young winners for some learnin’ up.” He shrugged. “He’s goin’ to have ’em travel before they start trainin’, watchin’ races n’ the like. Says he wants the boys to become a bit more worldly first. Meet some folks in the business. See their country. Round ’em out, I s’pose. In any case, there’s not much I can do for ya right now. Come back on the eleventh. If you’re as good ya say, maybe Mr. Hastings will find somethin’ for you to do. But don’t be countin’ on it. Good day.”

Sebastian had bid him good day in return before leaving the property. His confidence in securing a job there was scarcely an act. Mr. Hastings _would_ hire him come race day. After all, if he couldn’t impress a mere human, how could he call himself the butler of Phantomhive?

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It took Sebastian forty-five minutes of dashing through the countryside, across rooftops and treetops, skirting the perimeter of London Proper where they may be noticed, to reach Hastings' territory. It took forty-five minutes because Sebastian could not move at top speeds while carrying his charge – it would make Ciel sick, and it was well enough that this pace was tolerable. In fact, the boy slept most of the trip. It was six o’clock in the morning, and Ciel wanted all the energy he could muster for the race, but it _was_ rather incredible that this jilting ride could more lull than nauseate him.

Perhaps it was related to the bond of their contract. Sebastian always felt more powerful when nearer to his contracts’ souls. Being in this proximity to the delicacy that was Ciel’s very existence flooded Sebastian with a beautiful sense of invincibility. It was possible that Ciel also benefited psychologically from this closeness.

As they entered Banstead and encroached upon Hastings’ home, Sebastian could sense a comingling of souls near the property. He kept his path to thickly forested areas, as the territory’s many farmers were all awake now, and the road somewhat populated this particular morning.

Sebastian and Ciel were far from the first to arrive at Hastings’ residence. Sebastian had expected this, but still the attendance was a sight to behold. More than a hundred boys, nearly identically dressed in plaid knickers and brown caps, were scattered in a line outside the fence that marked the territory. They huddled together and chatted, their excited breaths like small clouds in the dawn air. The oldest boys looked to be about sixteen, and some were as young as five, holding tightly to the hand of a brother or cousin, seeming barely capable of sitting upright in a saddle. Amongst the crowd, Sebastian even recognized two girls dressed as boys, pretending for the sake of this incredible opportunity.

Many of the children were coughing. Almost all were dirty. Sebastian narrowed his gaze. It would be terribly unfortunate if Ciel were to fall victim to another asthma attack, spurred on by this cesspool of affliction…

The aforementioned was awake now; he was a vigilant sleeper, and the pause in movement doubtless roused him. His gaze on the crowd was observant and haughty. In this ragtag band of children, all he saw was his own success uncontested.

“I hope it doesn’t take long for the actual competition to begin,” he said at last. “There are so many boys here. Some of them are barely beyond infancy. There must be some sort of vetting process, the horses would be exhausted if everyone got a chance to ride.”

“It would seem there is.” Sebastian pointed out a doctor who was giving each child a general inspection as they waited in line. The white-coated man had the boys stick out their tongues and pull down on their eyelids, roll back their sleeves to observe their skin. If there were to be a breakout of smallpox or yellow fever, it would happen during the summer, and it was best to take precautions to keep it from spreading.

So far, quite a few boys were getting turned away. The majority didn’t seem to be from illness, though, as the dismissed boys had a strength in their disappointment, kicking at the dirt bitterly or even crying, if they were young enough not to feel ashamed to do so. Most of the boys told to leave were the little ones, but Sebastian noted one child with a twisted foot was sent away too.

He tapped at the thread of Ciel’s eye patch with a finger. “What will you say, if the doctor tries to keep you from entering because of this?”

Ciel’s expression immediately soured. “I would tell him he’s a fool, and I’ll make him sorry he even thought about it! I haven’t needed to take this thing off once since we started training. I’m more capable than anyone else here. Nothing is going to stop me from winning now.”

And nothing would. Sebastian knew it. His master was proud, but his confidence often wavered. It was present today. It made his soul glow like a sun.

Ciel turned to face him abruptly. “Okay, don’t you think we’ve stood up here enough? I need to get in line before it stretches all the way to Newport. You’ve got your orders. Get to work.”

Moments later, Sebastian was bounding off the way he came, back to a manor bathed yellow in dawn. By now, the Phantomhive staff had finished their early chores and eaten breakfast, and Sebastian gathered the four of them now in the kitchen. Finny and Mey-Rin looked chipper and expectant, eager to please. Bard was more subdued. Ever since their altercation in the paddocks a few weeks ago, the relationship between Bard and Sebastian had been… different. Bard’s work ethic had not changed, but his attitude towards Sebastian had. When asked to do a chore, Bard would somewhat roughly sigh, “Sure. I’ll get on it.” Sebastian had not broached the topic of their acquiescence because he didn’t feel like it. Still, one detail had impressed yet confused Sebastian: Bard had not told anyone else about their argument.

There were more important matters to consider now than that. “You all are going to be alone in the manor for an unspecified amount of time,” Sebastian began. “Naturally, you remember why you were hired in the first place. The young master is away on a mission. Should anyone take advantage of his absence, you know your duty.”

The puppyish faces of maid and gardener grew shadowed at that. “Is there anyone in particular we should expect?” Mey-Rin asked. She even removed her glasses as she spoke, taking on a different persona. “Should I go up to the roof as soon as you leave and make sure the rifles are clean?”

“If you haven’t seen to their condition in a while, please do. But no urgency is required.” Sebastian checked his pocket watch. Half past seven. When he looked up, Mey-Rin had adorned her glasses again and Finny was breaking a stray piece of straw off the brim of his sunhat; the noble hunting dogs had gone back to lolling their tongues. “While I’m away, Mr. Tanaka is in charge, as always. I do not know when the young master and I will be returning. If anyone other than the Midfords, the young master’s lawyer, or a Queen’s representative asks how long he’ll be away, merely tell them it will be soon. Take note of unfamiliar faces. As I said, I do not suspect an ambush. But ruling out the possibility is too dangerous. Understood?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Sebastian!” Only two of the three voices were enthusiastic in their declaration, and Tanaka bowed the affirmative.

The next order of business was preparing their suitcases. Each was filled with four outfits an East Ender would own – and doubtful an East Ender would own much more than four outfits. One suitcase was for Ciel, the other Sebastian, for their temporary new lives. Then Sebastian dressed himself in the same clothing he wore to Hastings’ stable a few days ago, tucking his bangs beneath a gray wool shepherd’s cap and feeling he must look younger than he typically liked to present himself. Finally, it was off to the Sacred Heart Orphanage of Westminster Abbey.

Sebastian did not knock when he arrived at the little ramshackle place. He strode right in to where he heard the children noisily eating their breakfast of oatmeal and chattering like chickens. The nun stood from the table when she saw Sebastian and approached him, her arms reaching forward for the suitcase. Unlike her orphans, she was solemn. “Lord Phantomhive is very bold, to go right into the belly of the beast,” she said. “I will be praying for his safety all while he is gone.”

Sebastian handed the suitcase off. “So then, you believe this competition may lead to the uncovering of the missing Middle Eastern children?”

The nun’s chest lifted as she breathed deeply. “I believe that somewhere children are being harmed and that it is God’s will for those children to be saved. My orphans and I have been pleading for their safe return. Lord Phantomhive could very well be our answer… If you find the little ones, bring them here. We do not have much room, but since you began your search, I have felt a responsibility to their souls. I have promised God that as long as their hearts still beat, I will share with them His teachings. And if it is already too late… I know in their innocence, they have found their way to Him. ” She shed two tears as she spoke. They left clean spots on the musty floorboards.

“Should my lord win a place in the competition, he will ask to be sent here in order to gather his belongings. I do not think you will be questioned, but if you are, tell them Astre Renault has not lived here long. He came here from his Uncle’s farm in France, after a poor harvest left his remaining family with empty purses.” The nun was gazing at the floor. Her eyes were glassy and tired. “You have a forgetful nature,” Sebastian reminded, “likely due to the amount of work you take on by yourself. But it is very important you do not forget these details.” He next removed a cheque from the lining of his vest. “Perhaps this will keep your memory fresh – even if your vow to the cloth keeps you from bowing to greed. Hm?”

The nun took the cheque but, admirably, did not look at the number it bore. “Astre shall be welcome here any time.”

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The day was in full swing as Sebastian departed the orphanage steps. Boys carrying newspapers and girls with baskets of early orchids hustled amongst droves of silk-gloved gentlemen and their wives. The London population always rose during the social season: in from the country came the rich to mingle and matchmake, and out from the gutters came the poor to hawk their wares or pick pockets. Sebastian could not afford to reach demon speeds when there were so many eyes about to sight him, and so he hailed a cab. The driver he managed to stop gave him a once-over, shrewd – in that garb, Sebastian didn’t look like he would ask for a ride unless he was planning to steal the carriage. But presenting the money upfront cleared the driver’s countenance, and Sebastian was back on his slow, rumbling way to Surrey.

Half an hour later, the cab reached the border of Woodmansterne. Sebastian knew it was safe to travel on his own two feet again, and he bid the driver farewell. There were few trees to hide him here, but it mattered little: these were the quiet parish lands belonging to St. Peter’s Church and the scattered gentry, with manors spaced so far apart, their masters did not even share oxygen. It was pretty here, by human standards. In contrast, the beauty of Banstead was broken up by ugly limekilns and chalk pits. Or a thick, untouched bit of forest might suddenly turn into farmland, and then into an ungroomed meadow. If one ventured deep enough into Banstead, all became rural– fortunately, where Sebastian needed to travel, the trees remained to conceal him. Scratch Wood became Swingfield Plain; from there he could move into Solome Wood, which just touched Doctor Wood; and finally, between the end of the Doctor Wood treeline and the main road leading to Chipstead, Hastings’ land was situated, and alive with the sound of excited boys.

Sebastian had last stood in this tree ninety minutes ago, and the view had since changed. The line of boys, which had initially just curved around the long wooden fence of Hastings’ land, went down the lane, around two hundred strong. There weren’t only competitors here now either: it was becoming an event for the whole of the East End to participate in. Wagonloads of boys were delivered by locals charging threepenny for a ride from London. Some small newspapers had sent photographers and young headliners to get the scoop. Vendors had chosen to bring their luncheon stalls here for the day, offering Chelsea buns and baked potatoes, slices of plum duff and fried fish. Sebastian had given Ciel his own breakfast wrapped in a checkered kerchief, a ham sandwich with sweet mustard and pickled cucumbers, a modest meal secretly made with as fine of ingredients as ever.  Ciel munched on it now, looking impatient, shifting his weight from foot to foot, glancing around at nothing and everything.

Sebastian recognized quickly that his angle from the treetops was a rather good position to observe the show. From here he could see a circular track next to the stables, not unlike the one he had built for Ciel back home. It was too small for a proper race, though: the turns would be too sharp for a horse to manage at high speeds. Where exactly did Hastings intend for the competition to take the place?

That question would answer itself, in due time. For Sebastian, there was no need to wait with bated breath. A young tortoiseshell farm cat was hunting dormice not far from him, and as soon as she made her kill, Sebastian would be sure to reward her accordingly…

Quickly passed a nectar-sweet half hour, lost in the mottled fur and white-grape eyes of a darling mistress. At the sounds of cheering boys, Sebastian realized the competition was starting, and had to put real effort into tearing his sights from the feline, who had only just begun to retract her fickle claws and settle in to his affections. There was no fanfare to announce the event’s grand opening – Hastings did not even appear present yet. The gates to the property swung wide, and two men Sebastian did not recognize from Hastings’ usual staff were managing the crowd, making sure the boys went in one at a time. After the first eight boys entered, there was a cut off, and beyond the entrance, another man led those boys to that circular track by the stables.

Not knowing what was happening, the boys waiting their turn began to whine and grumble that the line had already stopped moving. Even Ciel was giving in to his age, looking annoyed at the lack of communication and wanting very much to get this over with. Only Sebastian had a clear view of the scene.

As the first eight competitors made it to the track, the man that guided them there secured each one with a different-colored armband. An octet of thoroughbreds was marched out of the stable then and matched to a rider. The boys mounted their steeds using step stools, and all of them appeared uncomfortable, testing at the stirrups with their feet. It was likely that most of them had never sat a saddle. This would be another great advantage for Ciel – though it would look suspicious if he held himself as proudly as an English gentleman.

Ciel had been right about there being a vetting process. With two hundred boys in line, the horses would be worked to death if they were ridden all day at top speed. Therefore, the competition had to be narrowed down by testing the boys on their form. Eight boys at a time were brought to the ring to show their handling and posture. Three men observed them, one of which was the Hastings stable master, the other two being strangers to Sebastian. The boys were given three minutes to show their skills in the ring while the horses moved at a steady canter. Then, from among the eight boys, one and occasionally two would be selected to continue on to the next round.

For Ciel and the rest in line who could not see the track very well, the wait was dull. Comparatively, Sebastian was having a ball. He had nothing to do for some hours yet, a cat in his arms, and the best seat available. And the show he was seeing – at this point, he had to wonder if all of Ciel’s practice really _had_ been worth it. These boys had learned to ride by simply climbing onto a horse, and had developed their own bad habits and postures. Some of them refused to put their feet in the stirrups, and relied heavily on their legs for balance, as they would if there were no saddle present. Most were fidgety, constantly switching the way they rode and eyeing the judges heavily, trying to figure out what was wanted of them.

Those who passed the test did not show exceptional talent. What they showed was a quick adaptation to the saddle, or an understanding of a horse they had not grown up riding, or something else Sebastian couldn’t or didn’t bother to pick up on. In some cases, Sebastian felt the judges’ choice was entirely random – or, at least, based on something other than their performances in the ring.

The potential jockeys who passed the test sat in the grass beyond the track, waiting. They were sitting tall and proud, and looked on like they were judges themselves. Some pointed and whispered while the riders took their turns. And when another joined the winners’ circle, he was greeted merrily by his peers, as if they were all part of an exclusive club. It was a strange camaraderie. Sebastian found it very amusing. He wondered how Ciel would respond to it when he was inevitably added to their ranks.

The line of participants had been completely thinned of boys who were too young or ill to compete, putting Ciel at around a third of the way from the front. Still, it took some time for his turn to arrive. When it did, Ciel huffed out a big breath and walked with the other seven onto Hastings’ land.

For the past hour, Sebastian had observed every stride a child could exhibit: excited bouncing, hesitant rocking, long steps with swinging arms, bumbling confusion. Ciel’s stride, like his soul, stood out. It was impatient, confident, proud, in front of the pack but not the pack’s leader. Sebastian smirked. It was his master, through and through. There were times when even the world’s littlest liar could not bring himself to lie, and this was one of those times.

Ciel was given a green kerchief to tie around his arm, and a brown thoroughbred with a white blaze on its face. While the other boys fumbled on the provided stools to mount their horse, Ciel stepped smoothly aboard, as if the saddle were a throne and he its prince. Sebastian had watched this horse work for over an hour now, saw the tolerance and monotony take over its stance, so that its neck and tail drooped a bit with each new rider. It snapped to attention when Ciel snapped the reins. It practically danced into the ring when Ciel’s heels swatted his ribs.

Sebastian’s fingers carded the feline beauty’s fur. Perhaps demons had more in common with horses than he’d given them credit. They too had an innate understanding of who was worthy and how to treat them.

A minute later, all were assembled in the ring, and the boys were instructed to begin. Round and round they went, a three-minute loop. Ciel was the star of the show – that much was clear. He made a few adjustments to his normal riding technique, so as not to betray his noble upbringing, but no ounce of propriety was shed. He moved with the horse, kept his shoulders squared, his head up high, while the judges nodded their approval from the sidelines. When time was up, Ciel was the natural selection, and he was called to the winner’s circle with clapping and cries of, “Good show, good show!”

Now that Ciel had made it past the first trial, Sebastian’s eyes left the ring and instead focused on his master. The seven losers looked on enviously as Ciel made his way over to the winning boys on their hillside.

“And that makes nine!” a sandy-haired skinny boy announced with a gappish grin.

A freckled boy rocked to his feet to look more closely at Ciel. “Wow, but you’re a pale thing!”

“He’s only got one eye!” shouted a scrawny young one in awe.

A stockier lad put his hands on his hips but smiled broadly. “Well? Whadda they call you, then?”

“Um. Astre,” Ciel finally said, swallowing his bewilderment. “Astre Renault… Pleasure.”

The stocky boy drew back a bit. “Oy, but you speak real proper. Whassat about?”

Sebastian chuckled lightly. He was just as curious to know the answer his young lord had concocted. “I grew up in France,” Ciel said quickly. “Working my Uncle Durant’s land in Campagne-lès-Guines. I was lucky enough to learn English from a diplomat who vacationed in the countryside. I only knew to copy his accent, so I speak English like him.”

“You was taught English by a _diplomat?_ ” Naturally, it wasn’t quick to be believed.

Ciel was ready for that, though. “It’s a long story, but, to put it short, my uncle got the diplomat out of a tight spot when his carriage broke down near our cottage and a couple of ruffians came over to give the poor man trouble… Uncle Durant’s put his brawling days behind him, but he still remembered a thing or two, and gave the rogues what-for. And until the day he died, that diplomat was our friend, and visited us each time he came to the countryside.” Ciel sighed mournfully. “France may not be my home anymore, but if I can speak English as well as any gentleman, I want to believe I’m doing my country proud.”

The boys nodded slowly, digesting his story. They didn’t need an explanation for why Ciel was so far from his native land. They knew how life could swallow you up in its terrible sea and spit you out far from home.

The stocky boy chewed his lip and finally smirked his approval. “Oh, guess you’re all right. You come in talkin’ all uppity, like you’re better’n the rest a’ us, you’re right askin’ to cop a mouse※, y’know. But that ’splains it.” He put out his hand and ensnared Ciel’s in a vigorous shake. “Cuthbert Whitby’s the name. You can call me Whit.”

So, that was the tall tale Ciel had chosen to explain his proper diction. Sebastian smirked at the show of it all. There would be no need for this silly lie if Ciel didn’t just put on an East End accent, or even a French one. But Ciel had made it very clear since the beginning of their contract that his acting skills couldn’t be pushed to that extreme.

“I’m no good at accents,” he’d insisted when Sebastian first proposed he disguise his voice, years ago.

“Perhaps you are too critical. Go on, show me your best,” was Sebastian’s response.

But Ciel had dug in his heels. “I told you, I’m no good at them. I won’t convince anybody. I’d have a much easier time making up some story about why I speak like a noble.”

Sebastian had chuckled at him. “ _That_ I doubt.”

“I’m telling you, it’s easier, and that’s that.”

It had taken Sebastian only seconds more to catch on to the truth of it: Ciel was too embarrassed to use any voice other than has natural one. When he spoke French, he spoke it properly, but that was as far as Ciel deviated from his own dialect. He was sensitive to such a critique, and would go to all lengths to avoid humiliating himself… even at the stakes of failing a mission for the Queen.

The competition continued, and Ciel settled on the grass to watch the next round of racers, but the winners were not done with their interrogations. “What happened to yer eye?” the scrawny boy wondered, kneeling beside him.

“There was an accident on the farm years ago,” Ciel said merely. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Sounds awful!” the scrawny one yipped.

“You’re awful,” Whit said, plummeting between them. “Askin’ questions y’ ought not to be askin’. You ain’t too young to know manners, are ye?”

“I’m eleven!”

“Then you should have enough sense to respect boys bigger than you, ’less you want a pop in the jaw,” Whit said, showing a fist for gumption, but not really angry. He brightened when he turned back to the newcomer. “What about you, Patch? How old’re you?”

Ciel blinked, realizing he’d just been nicknamed, before answering, “Fourteen. And you?”

Whit stared, then laughed. “Fourteen! No you ain’t!”

“Y-Yes, I am.” Ciel wasn’t sure what he was missing here.

Whit was quick to clue him in. “No way you’re older’n me!” he cried. “Your voice is higher than mine!”

Ciel colored; Sebastian grinned wickedly. Oh, the irony of it all. Ciel had used his true voice, specifically to avoid such humiliation, and that had managed to backfire completely. To Sebastian’s further amusement, Ciel stuttered back, “It’s… It’s not _that_ much higher!”

“You’re really fourteen, then? Sorry.” Whit looked at him pityingly. “I’d be sore if my voice hadn’t started cracking yet.”

Ciel’s flush darkened. “It… does, too. Sometimes it does.” _It doesn’t_ , Sebastian thought merrily.

“I’m thirteen, and my voice is already broken,” piped up another boy proudly.

“Oh, bully for you. D’ya want a medal?”

“Mine breaks sometimes, too, and I’ll be thirteen next month!”

“My da’s voice is so low, when he had a bad cough, he frightened an old miss into thinkin’ a big dog was right behind her!”

“A dog, huh? Must be half-terrier, the way you speak!”

“D’you want a blinker?”⸸

“Oh, shove off, I’m only kidding. Save your pride for the race! Then we’ll see who the real men are, voices broken or not.”

The group of winners more than doubled over the course of the next two hours. The sun was high now, and everyone was getting a bit bored and tired – all except for Sebastian, who had been joined by another shorthair tabby and was fixated on the show of his master’s awkwardness. Ciel spent very little time around other boys his age, and certainly when he did, they were aristocrats like himself, not the rowdy, streetwise variety he was surrounded by today. But there was one thing in particular Ciel was not used to, and that was the very physical way that boys showed each their feelings, from friendliness to disapproval and everything in-between.

The animated Whit was an especial deliverer of these blows. Over the course of that first trial, he’d slugged Ciel in the arm, shook him to get his attention, slapped him on the back, and even once used Ciel’s shoulder to hoist himself up. Ciel struggled to keep his hackles from rising. He did not like this touching one bit. But he endured it, for the sake of the Queen, and with the clear rationalization that this would not be the most difficult part of his mission.

The hundreds of boys who had lost the competition dispersed slowly, glumly, ambling to Banstead Village or Chipstead, or loading into carts by the dozens for a sluggish but cheap return to London. They had known their chances of victory were slim, but they had longed to win anyway, and when the dreams of the young are dashed, they splinter like bone china. Their heavy faces told enough of a story. If they were lucky, London was their last stop. Many more would have to buy a second train ticket back to their homes in Hampshire or Kent or Sussex or Dorset. A ticket was an expensive item when one lived hungry and threadbare – travel was a risk, and the poor only did it when it was absolutely necessary. Some boys, from the snippets of conversation Sebastian caught, wouldn’t even be able to return home today, and would have to somehow scrape together the pennies until they could afford the trip. An adult worry had darkened the eyes set in those gaunt young faces as they made their journeys away from Hastings, away from a wisp of a dream.

Little did they know what danger they had dodged. That is, if the young lord was right about Hastings’ scheme.

The twenty-four winners who weren’t Ciel smiled and laughed with each other about making it so far. They shook hands, as gentlemen did, but more in mockery than civility. The competition was not over yet. Only five of them would actually earn a sponsorship from Mr. Hastings. It was the tension that made them want to laugh, not the relief.

That was when Hastings at last made an entrance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ※ A "mouse" being a black eye and "cop" being "ask for."
> 
> ⸸ See above.


	14. The Bellwether

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've learned to regret this sheep/sheepdog theme I've decided on for the chapter titles, but from the get-go, I knew I'd call one "the bellwether." It signifies the leading sheep of a flock, and is more commonly known today as a term for a harbinger.

Gwilym Hastings emerged from the front double doors of his house, flanked by a troop of maids and butlers, who were working together to carry tables and trays heaped in meat pies and scotch eggs. The boys all straightened to attention and made themselves look good for their ultimate judge. Ciel joined them in their posing, but Sebastian noted his brow furrowing the slightest bit as he took in Hastings’ visage. He was a younger man than Ciel had expected, roughly thirty where Northcott was at least forty. That fact that his hair was a rather bright ginger and his face was shaven bare further encapsulated that youthfulness.

Hastings carried himself with squared shoulders and smiled encouragingly at the boys on his hillside. As his entourage put together the luncheon, Hastings greeted the first round’s winners.

“My, what a fine lot of lads you all are!” He spoke as a man admires a litter of well-bred hounds. Sebastian could not pick up on any further nuances in that tone – Hastings was too far away to be heard with perfect clarity. “I saw, from my upstairs parlor, how many, many boys came here today. Over two hundred, I was told! You were the best of them – I can see it in your faces. Strong and eager, as boys ought to be! If only I could choose all of you to come live with me. I don’t doubt a single one would disappoint.” He heaved a big sigh. “Unfortunately, the competition must continue until only five are left. But let’s not launch into it right away. I’m sure you all are quite hungry!”

Some of the younger boys nodded. Most just stood tall and obedient as soldiers, waiting for a command or a chance to show off.

“I want to get to know all of you,” Hastings said. “So while the rest eat, I shall call you one by one for a brief interview. It isn’t anything you need worry for. I only want to know more about your family and why you think you deserve to win.” He clapped his hands together twice. “Now, I’ll count you off, one to twenty-five.” Hastings did so then. Ciel was coined number sixteen. “I look forward to shaking all your hands,” Mr. Hastings said. “Please, enjoy the lunch spread while you wait. If number one will follow me for the interview, then, the rest of you will have your turns in due time.”

Hastings took the first interviewee a short distance away to a gloriously large, twisted hornbeam tree nearby, where there was a set of chairs with a little dish-top table between them. Here Hastings and boy number one sat and began to talk.

The discussion was very brief. Mr. Hastings hadn’t been minimizing when he said he merely wanted to know about the children’s family lives and motivations. The younger boys answered shyly or enthusiastically, while the older ones kept themselves straight-backed and dignified, or some approximation. Ciel, who wanted very much to feel like he was investigating, stared hard at Hastings as he talked with each contestant. Whit distracted him before too long.

“Cor, if this isn’t some a’ the best grub I’ve ever had!” he cheered as he plopped down beside Ciel on the grass. “Never had a biscuit before that wasn’t a ‘quick biscuit’※ – or catsup, and with lamb, too! Listen, I just wanted to tell ye, if we’re versus each other in the race… well, I hope we’re not, because wouldn’t it be somethin’ if we both got to learn together, Patch? I think you’re going to win, is what I mean. Anyone who goes against ya will be eatin’ dust. So best of luck to us, right?”

“Uh, right, yeah,” Ciel mumbled offhandedly, stuffing a sardine and cracker into his mouth. When he swallowed, he’d refocused on his role. “I hope you win too, Whit. I didn’t get a chance to see your handling while I was in line, but I bet you’ll do all right.”

“Bet I will too, ’long as I’m not against you.” Whit gestured with his thumb across the lawn. “I was checkin’ it out. Over there’s where we’re goin’ to be racin’. They’re gonna have five of us go at a time and do a quick sprint, and the winner of each round gets to move on and become a jockey-in-trainin’ for Mr. Hastings. I don’t know how they’re gonna choose who races who. Guess we’ll jes’ have to see, hm?”

“Y-Y-Yeah,” Ciel stuttered, as Whit shook his shoulder hard for the seventh time.

“Sixteen!” called one of the judges from before, and Ciel took his grateful leave over to the hornbeam.

Ciel settled himself in the chair before reaching to shake Hastings’ hand, with a modest, “How do you do, sir? I’m Astre Renault.”

“Astre? What an interesting name. Pleasure to meet you.” Hastings smiled, and Ciel smiled back, amiable and false. Sebastian could imagine what was going through Ciel’s mind: _Am I, right now, mere feet away from the very man I must apprehend?_

Hastings' kind smile became one of slight surprise. “You speak the Queen’s English. Where exactly are you from?”

Ciel repeated the same story he told Whit of his rural upbringing in the French countryside and his rapport with a diplomat.

“And I imagine you suffered some incident on the farm that cost you your right eye?”

Ciel nodded, downcast, giving all the appearance of a boy who didn’t want to keep speaking on a subject so delicate.

“… I see.” Hastings still looked perplexed. Was he disbelieving? “You’ve had quite a life, young Astre!” The man was all smiles again. “What a story yours would make… all the way from France to England… A French jockey who speaks like a noble. Oh, forgive me; I’m getting ahead of myself. I don’t mean to get your hopes up. But I won’t lie, I am fascinated by your circumstances! So then, where are you living currently? Are you still with your uncle?”

“No, sir. My uncle had a poor harvest, and I’m too young to be of much use to him. He’s been kind enough to let me live with him until I came of age, but now I’m old enough to make my own way, and I didn’t want to be a burden on him anymore. Campagne-lès-Guines is hardly a place to find employment, but England is just across the pas de Calais- er, I mean, the Dover Narrows- and I knew there would be plenty of labor in the city. I’ve been staying at the Sacred Heart Orphanage of Westminster Abbey since I arrived a few months ago.”

“You had no other family in France?”

“No, sir, or prospects. That’s why I came to London.”

“You are an orphan, then. I’m sorry to hear that.” Hastings’ sorrow did not sound so deep, but that wasn’t necessarily suspicious. Many of the boys here today were orphans. “But you’ve pulled yourself up by your bootstraps! You’re a fighter – else you wouldn’t have gotten this far. So tell me, then, why you believe you deserve to become a jockey?”

Ciel needn’t lie to answer this question. “Because I have a technique that ensures my victory in the race.”

Hastings was quiet for a moment, but still smiling. “That sounds very intriguing.”

Ciel didn’t bat an eye. “It is.”

“You are very confident!” Hastings laughed sparklingly. “I admire it… and I look forward to seeing this technique in action. Best of luck, Astre.” They shook hands again, and Ciel took his leave of the table. Sebastian watched, but Hastings betrayed no signs of suspicion towards Astre, or that he suspected Ciel of lying. He merely had one of his men call, “Seventeen!” Though, as Ciel walked away, Sebastian did observe Hastings mark something down on a notepad.

After the last nine boys finished their interviews with Hastings, the air became taught as a bowstring with anticipation. The boys grew ill with silence, and didn’t talk with each other anymore. They were firmly reminded, watching a new herd of fourteen racehorses trot past them, that everyone was an enemy now.

Sebastian now saw that Hastings had converted some of the lawn to the south of his abode into a flat dirt track, approximately one furlong in length. It would be a sprint, then, a quick chance to show how one’s skills translated into speed, and to prove how much control one had over that speed. Sebastian followed the C-curve of the treeline around the property to get a better angle on the race. Some race it would be, all but fifteen seconds, but that would keep the horses from wearing out. Besides, similarly to Ciel’s estate, there wasn’t enough land for Hastings to make a true racetrack here. A sprint was more efficient in all ways.

Hastings’ stable was not large enough to accompany all of these horses, meaning that some of them were borrowed. Sebastian studied the equine crop. All of them were thoroughbreds, a fast breed that surged with the hot blood of Turkomans and Arabians. They were also all bays, like Avalon, brown with black manes. Their wide eyes and gnashing jaws gave away an anxiety equal to the boys who were about to ride them. It was natural for a racehorse to be flighty. But some of the horses seemed more aggravated than merely nervous. Sebastian could not decipher their moods with total certainty. The behaviors of horses were not ones he had ever paid especial attention to.

Hastings also had a few extra stable hands on duty. Sebastian watched as Hastings passed on to these men the notepad he had been marking before, which turned out to be a list of who would be racing whom. Sebastian wished he could read it from here. How had Hastings made his decision on which racers were best? Was the competition rigged, and if so, how? Either way, Ciel’s victory seemed assured: his riding was superior to every other contestant, and Hastings had taken somewhat of a liking to ‘Astre’ and his curious upbringing.

Sebastian grinned to himself, feeling something akin to pride. Maybe Ciel had been right to keep his natural voice after all.

The boys stood in a straight line with their shoulders back, again like soldiers, though this time perhaps soldiers who had been informed they were being sent on a deadly mission. Commanding officer Hastings approached them, surveying his troops with his hands behind his back. He assuaged them, then, in the manner of a friendly uncle. “I can see in your faces that this race holds gravity for you,” he began, “and I must tell you, it’s no great comfort to be the man holding the scepter either. If I could, I’d have you all win.”

Sebastian saw Ciel wrinkle his nose. Hastings’ did not earn any Phantomhive respect today.

“But please don’t allow your nerves to hamper your performance,” Hastings went on. “Things change. This life is not for everyone. There is a possibility that a winner may find the training is more than he bargained for. And then I’ll need one of you to take his place. So, chins up, lads! All is not lost by this race alone.”

This did cause relaxation in twenty-odd faces. But Ciel’s remained perturbed. Sebastian was in agreement: that was more ominous than reassuring.

“With that said–” Hastings gave his hands a solid clap “–shall we get to it, lads?”

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“Dorsey, Sutherland, Tatham, Jepson, Wilkie!”

The race was rigged. Sebastian quickly discovered how.

The Sutherland boy won the first sprint. His assigned thoroughbred blew through the string that marked the end of the furlong. Sutherland was shocked at his victory. He gasped, panting in exertion and wonderment, while his horse stood on four steady hooves. Was this race nothing for a champion steed? Perhaps… but the other four horses who came in last (for, in Sebastian’s mind, there was no second or third, only last) panted before settling. They’d felt the exercise in their cores. Sutherland’s horse? Its muscles twitched with the desire to keep going. A detail one might miss if they weren’t paying close attention. It was the only sort of attention Sebastian could pay, where his lord’s orders were concerned.

“Kersey, Dickinson, Pender, Browning, Tracy!”

The horse would run again, only once more. It would run for his master. And in the sea of identical brown stallions, no one would know. No one but Hastings, and his men, and Sebastian Michaelis.

The winner was Browning. Sebastian saw it again: a horse with just a slight bit more energy leftover at the end of the sprint. It was not the same horse as before. This he was certain of. Hastings had already decided who was going to win. He’d given the instructions for which horse should go to which rider. All the groomsmen had to do was be certain they were correct in their assignment.

Now the question remained: how had Hastings made his choice on the victors?

“Adams, Fenn, Whitby, Hanley, Simpkin!”

“Wish me luck, Patch!” Whitby thumped Ciel again on the back. Ciel suffered through the treatment, hopeful it would be the last of this friendly abuse. But it wouldn’t be. Whitby won the race, and the four losers were beaten twice, once by the finish line, once again by Whitby’s crowing.

“Marlee, Harlow, Baker, Erickson, Black!”

And then, as if he was being called to the spotlight by his old circus moniker, it was Sebastian’s turn to perform.

The firing of a blank sent the horses on their path, and it was Marlee who won this time – but his horse didn’t get the memo. When the string broke across his chest, the horse kept running, at full speed, tearing the lawn with hooves like spades and ignoring the warning tugs of its small charge, as well as his cries. “Whoa! Whoa! Stop it! Hey! I said whoa!” But this horse had fire instead of blood, and only someone with the might of Apollo could curtail its course now.

Sebastian was quite the opposite of a sun god, but he would have to do.

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“Corbin Bleu.”

Ciel raised an eyebrow, an action he’d gotten quite good at despite the eye patch’s string. “That’s your undercover name? It’s strange. How did you come up with it?”

“Perhaps my lord can dissect it, using his knowledge of language?”

Ciel looked at him reproachfully. “Well, I’m assuming ‘Corbin’ is related to ‘corvid’ or ‘corbeau.’ Crow. You’re hilarious.”

Sebastian only betrayed his delight through a small smile. “And Bleu?”

Ciel waved his hand. "It's just a color."

“Is it?” Sebastian walked to open the bedroom door for his master. “If my lord says so, than perhaps it is.”

Ciel glared at him as he passed, with that sapphire jewel studded in his slimming face. “‘If my lord says so…’ Feh. As if I would embody such a statement. I should hate to live in a world where what I speak becomes anybody’s truth. I’d always rather know the truth, and then speak it.”

Bleu. A French surname, derived from an epithet, specifically denoting one who dressed in blue or had blue eyes. So, Corbin Bleu literally became ‘crow of the blue-eyed boy’ and hid, as he loved to, in plainest sight.⸸

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A gloved hand caught the reins, near the bit, with all the darting precision of a cobra, and that hand had the huge head under its control in seconds. Wild eyes rolled and teeth, fearful, tried for a bite, but they missed their mark. Then the prey animal remembered it was a racer and calmed quickly, but not before that trained hand could gauge its strength. The horse was strong. Unusually so.

“Cor!” Marlee looked down at Sebastian as if he were his savior. “I thought we was about to bash into the trees! I couldn’t make ’im do nothin’!”

“Then it seems I’ve arrived just in time,” Sebastian said, tipping up his shepherd’s cap.

The handlers had dashed after Marlee’s mount when they saw it wasn’t going to stop, but slowed their pace when they noted another man was handling it. The eyes of most were distrusting, but Sebastian was recognized by the stable master. “Oh, it’s you,” the old gent said. “You’re, eh… Well, technically trespassing. But looking for a job also still, hm?”

Sebastian laughed in a way that sounded honest. “Yes, and I do beg your pardon. Your land does bend into Park Downs. I was waiting for the right moment to make an entrance… and to be honest, this seemed like a fine one. I did tell you that you’d find few more talented at handling horses than I.”

“Yes, well.” The stable master coughed to clear the air. “And I told you, that decision isn’t up to me. But I s’pose Mr. Hastings will be interested in seeing who just spared his latest jockey a nasty fall.”

Sebastian smiled charmingly up at Marlee. “You’re a winner, then? Congratulations.”

“N’ double lucky, too!” The lad, at least three years Ciel’s junior, was still breathing hard with the relief of being alive.

Sebastian was a head taller than Hastings, but that didn’t stop the man from sizing him up. “You’re clearly quite strong,” Hastings said, while Ciel glared on in the background. “Even if you are a trespasser…” His eyes flashed with a hint of suspicion, a mood Sebastian would always be able to measure, no matter how quickly it blinked by. The suspicion disappeared into curiosity as soon as it came on. “Well!” he said. “I have always admired someone with mettle! Forward thinking… yes, I like it. I like it. Or else I wouldn’t be holding such a competition! Well, boys, what do you think? Shall I give him an interview?”

The boys, whether they won and were full of vigor, or lost and wanted to show good sportsmanship, cheered at this. Ciel was, in fact, the only one not hollering favorably, and only clapped a little bit to blend in. Sebastian was highly amused.

“Well, then.” Hastings gave Sebastian a hearty handshake. “I think that says all. I look forward to speaking with you further, Mr. Mettle! And with that, let’s delay no further. It’s time for our last race.”

There was no need to call names. The five boys remaining knew who they were. Sebastian observed from the sidelines as the quintet filed towards their horses, watched as Ciel was helped aboard the bronze Arabian that won for Browning. He wondered if even his young master, with his mortal sight, could tell the differences between the near-identical horses. He wondered if Ciel knew he’d been chosen to win, or if he spurred his horse to the starting line with blind determination.

“Ready, boys!” Hastings called, lifting his pistol to the air.

Ciel hunched in the saddle, holding the crop above the horse’s right flank.

“On your mark! Get set!”

 _Bang_.

Like a rabbit as it hunched before the bound, Ciel pushed himself out of the saddle, held his chest low over the horse’s straight neck, and let the thoroughbred run as a wild mustang, while bearing his own weight up high. His knees and elbows were nearly touching each other, and Sebastian, the only one who saw life so clearly that the fastest things weren’t a blur, noted his master’s teeth were clenched tight in the fiercest grin. If only it wasn’t the eye patch facing him: the blue eye was sure to be a firework. Hastings, the onlooking boys, the groomsmen – all were quiet in the presence of this magic. It was as though a blank hadn’t been fired but a real bullet, and it had come alive and finished the race faster than anyone else.

Sebastian felt the muzzle of a gun jab his hip at the exact moment the crowd of boys took up cheering. “You’ll go straight over to the stable without a word to the little ’uns, if’n y’know what’s good for ye,” a man’s voice said low in his ear.

The last thing Sebastian saw before he turned heel was Ciel clinging to the horse’s hot neck and using it to support himself as he dropped down to the ground, mobbed by lads who suddenly thought him a hero to poor boys everywhere.

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“And when I show up unannounced, you suppose Mr. Hastings’ will merely disregard me as a vagabond, and not suspect anything behind my sudden appearance?”

“I imagine he will. I imagine he’ll suspect something immediately.” Ciel stepped forward in the beaten-up Broglie boots as Sebastian held open the front door of the manor and watched him walk down the steps into the palest yellow of morning. “He’ll be certain you know he’s up to something. He might even shoot you, once he has you alone.”

Sebastian crouched to pick Ciel up. “And what should I do if he shoots me?”

Ciel wrapped his arms around his demon’s neck for support. “Seeing as you can’t lie, you mean?”

“I could pretend to die. If it goes unspoken, it’s doesn’t technically go against the contract.”

“No. I need you around. I can’t afford to have you ‘die.’” Ciel shook his head. Thought for a moment. “If they shoot you… You tell them the truth.”

“The truth, sir? How much exactly?”

Ciel didn’t hesitate this time. “As much as is necessary to spark Hastings’ interest.”

And with his master’s plan filling his ears, Sebastian carried Ciel off to the territory of the man who, in a short six hours, would want Sebastian dead.

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Sebastian was held at gunpoint in the stables for an hour before Hastings appeared. He stormed into the stall Sebastian was being contained in, with a very different face than before, a darker and more mature one, and asked, “Has he said anything?”

The groomsmen shook his head. “Not a word, he tol' me, till you arrived.”

“Not a word?” Hastings was distraught. “You have a gun, don’t you? Did you consider waving it around a bit, or reminding him what a gun is _for?_ ”

“For announcing the start of a race, isn’t it?” Sebastian answered brightly.

Hastings breathed hard out his nose. “A joker, I see. Did you search him?”

“O’ course I did. He’s not armed. Not even a knife.”

“Not armed?” Hastings looked at Sebastian anew. “Nothing at all?”

“A man generally does not carry weapons when he doesn’t suspect attack,” Sebastian answered. “Being non-threatening usually helps win one a job. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Hastings paused, shook his head. “No. I don’t buy this.” He held out his hand for the gun without looking at his henchman. “Leave us be, Hardwick. Guard the exits to the stable with the others. And if any of the boys ask about a loud noise, tell them the neighbors are hunting duck. Though none of them should be back from collecting their belongings yet.”

Hardwick left, begrudgingly, and Hastings walked forward with menace, staring at his victim (staring him down, Sebastian imagined was the intent) with his brown eyes shimmering like his horses' backs. He stopped moving when their faces were inches apart. “How much do you know,” Hastings began. He was no kind uncle anymore.

Sebastian tipped an eyebrow. “Evidently, too much.”

Hastings jammed a gun against his jugular. “ _How_ much? And who told you, dammit?!”

Sebastian only smiled. “Nobody told me. Nobody but you.”

“This,” Hastings snarled, “is not the time to be bold. I’ve kept a lid on all this. Everyone has – everyone who wants to stay alive, anyway. And if you think your life isn’t the perfect thing to stopper a leak, you’re damn wrong. And you wouldn’t be the first one offed.” Sebastian heard the hammer click, just below his left ear. “Now. Who… told… you?”

Sebastian repeated in a sly whisper, “You.”

The gun flicked away from Sebastian’s throat and sent a bullet cascading into his leg. As he was instructed, Sebastian did not flinch or feign injury. The only part of him that changed was his smile, widening at Hastings’ shock. He let show the very tips of his eyeteeth.

Hastings immediately turned a ghostly white. “What in hell…?” he breathed. He fired another shot, right into Sebastian’s chest. It put a hole in the shirt but not in the flesh beneath. “What in hell?!”

“A very astute pronouncement indeed, Mr. Hastings,” Sebastian simpered. He held out the twin bullets to their trembling owner. “Right on the money, you might say. For I am not a man come to sabotage you.” He spilled the silver nuggets to the dirt floor, leaving only his palm extended like an offer. “I am a demon come to join you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ※ A biscuit made of cream of tartar and baking powder.
> 
> ⸸ I don't know how famous Corbin Bleu is outside of the U.S. but yes I did just nickname Sebastian after 2000s star of Disney Channel's _High School Musical_ and _Jump In!_[Corbin Bleu](http://www4.pictures.fp.zimbio.com/Zac+Efron+Corbin+Bleu+High+School+Musical+gX56QkhJPQ9l.jpg) because I thought it would be funny  
>   
> 
> Comments and suggestions are always welcome and appreciated! Thank you to anyone who leaves a post!
> 
> Also, I plan on participating in Black Butler Kids' Week and writing a few drabbles for it! Check out my tumblr, [the-pied-avocet](https://the-pied-avocet.tumblr.com/), if you're interested in reading them when August rolls around.


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